A Grain of Truth

by Zygmunt Miloszewski

  “Our tables appear to be in different dimensions of time and space, Prosecutor,” he heard a grouchy voice from behind.

  He turned round and was struck dumb. At the next table sat his former boss, head of the Warsaw City Centre District Prosecutor’s Office, whom he had always thought of as the least attractive woman on earth. Well, a single glance after several months apart confirmed his conviction that he’d always been right. Her grey face was just as grey, her brown strings of slightly wavy hair were just as brown, and rather than softening the dispiriting impression, swapping her grey office jacket for a red sweater only reinforced it. Janina Chorko looked like a woman who has sent a request to a charity that makes wishes come true for the terminally ill, and been dressed in something cheerful for her final hours. What a ghastly effect.

  “It’s good to see you, Madam Prosecutor. You’re looking splendid.”

  Chorko was not alone – with her was Maria “Misia” Miszczyk, her husband – a surprisingly good-looking man, the George Clooney type – and their two children, aged about fifteen or sixteen; the boy looked like trouble already, and the girl, the A-student type, had slightly muted charms, but her eyes flashed with such intelligence that Szacki would have been afraid to pit himself against her in a battle of repartee.

  Despite her mother’s tendency to excess plumpness and her talent for baking cakes, all three were slender and looked fit. Szacki suddenly felt sorry that Chorko was sitting with them; it must have been painful for this worn-out, grey, lonely woman to see this lovely, happy family.

  “I didn’t know you knew each other,” he said the first thing that entered his head, not wanting Chorko to notice the emotions written on his face.

  “I don’t know what that says about you as an investigator, Prosecutor,” she remarked cuttingly. “You’ve failed to detect that your bosses were at college together.”

  Miszczyk burst out laughing, and Chorko joined in with her. He had never heard his former boss laughing before. And she had a lovely, joyful laugh, her wrinkles smoothed out and her eyes began to glow; even if she didn’t become pretty, at least she stopped looking like a study aid for medical students.

  “Hold on a mo,” said Prosecutor Janina Chorko. “I usually keep my private life as far as possible from the world of crime, but now… This is Prosecutor Teodor Szacki, I told you, Mariusz, that if in spite of all you did want to study law, you must write your dissertation on his cases – some unusual stories, solved in an unusual way. This is my husband Jerzy, and some girl we’ve adopted whose name is Luiza.”

  “What do you mean, adopted?” said Luiza indignantly, drawing attention to herself.

  “Because I can’t possibly have produced a daughter who leans her elbows on the table like that.”

  “Aha, so it’s a joke. Pity, I was just looking forward to finding my real family…”

  “Please don’t take any notice, it’s her age.”

  “…after an adventure-packed search, which would finally give my life a meaning.”

  “Please, come and join us, let’s have a drink, Janina’s driving.” Chorko’s husband, as he had surprisingly turned out to be, smiled broadly and made room for Szacki on the wooden bench.

  But Prosecutor Teodor Szacki was standing on the spot, not even trying to hide his amazement. It wasn’t possible – he had worked with this woman for twelve years, always assuming she was an embittered spinster, who made discreet, embarrassing passes at him to boot. For twelve years he had felt bad about rejecting them, for twelve years he had regularly drunk her health, thinking the world was unfair, and that somewhere there must be someone, maybe not top class, but at least with both arms and legs, who would show her some mercy, bestow on her if not love, then at least a little sympathy, and would bring just a teeny bit of light into her grey-and-brown existence.

  Evidently, he had worried in vain. Evidently, there are legends in which there isn’t a grain of truth. In which everything is a lie from start to finish.

  They all tell lies, Basia Sobieraj’s dying father had said.

  “Oh fuck!” he said out loud.

  He didn’t see the company’s reaction to this unexpected opening remark, because suddenly, finally, one simple thought had brought the wall tumbling down, against which he had been banging his head from the very start of this investigation. Legends in which there isn’t a grain of truth, in which everything is a lie. Everything! He started running through the scenes of the investigation in his mind, from the first misty morning below the synagogue, assuming that everything was a lie. The slashed throat, the razor, the blood ritual, the place where the body was found, all of that Jewish mythology and all the Polish anti-Semitic mythology, the mansion, the barrel, the painting in the cathedral, the inscription, and all those pictures that were so readily shoved under his nose.

  “Oh fuck!” he repeated, louder this time, and set off at a run across the market square.

  “I don’t think I do want to study law,” he heard Chorko’s son remark behind him.

  Never before had any thought process run through his head so quickly, never before had so many facts combined in such a brief flash into a single indissoluble logical sequence, which had only one possible outcome. It was an experience bordering on mania as his thoughts went leaping across his brain cells at epileptic speed, his grey matter shone like platinum from the information overload, and he was afraid something would happen to him, his brain wouldn’t be able to process it all and would stall. But there was also something like drug-induced euphoria or religious ecstasy about it, an excitement impossible to restrain, emotions impossible to control. A lie, a lie, it was all a lie, an illusion, a smokescreen. In the crush of funfair attractions, amid the stage-settings of the crimes, in the excess of facts and their interpretation he had overlooked the most important details, and above all the most important conversation.

  As he flew into the “Town Hall” bar he must have had a wild look in his eyes, because the grim waiter dropped his cool and timidly hid behind the bar. There was hardly anyone in there, just two families of lost tourists sitting by the wall; they must have been very hungry if they had decided to stay here for a meal.

  “Where are those tramps who usually sit here?” he screamed at the waiter, but before the man could get the words out of his mouth, Szacki’s hormone-filled nervous system had given him the answer, and he ran out, leaving some more astonished people behind him, who just like the company at the Trzydziestka swapped glances and tapped their foreheads.

  He had had the most important conversation with a man from the outside, a clever man, who had evaluated the facts not against the background of the small-town hell of Sandomierz, but simply as facts. During that conversation, he had been irritated by Klejnocki, the profiler, had cringed at his style, the annoying pipe and the clever-clogs chat – once again, stage props had obscured the truth. And the truth was that Klejnocki had solved the Sandomierz riddle a week ago, but Szacki had been too stupid, too steeped in lies, too bogged down in the details to notice it.

  He sprinted past the post office, ran down Opatowska Street, miraculously managing not to knock over an old lady coming out of a shop selling handicrafts, flew through the passage under the Opatowska Gate and, panting, stopped at a small square. He almost whooped for joy when he saw the same tramp as yesterday sitting on a bench. He ran up and grabbed the fellow, on whose small triangular face adorned with sticking-out ears a look of terror appeared.

  “What do you—”

  “Mr Gąsiorowski, isn’t it?”

  “Eee, and who’s asking?”

  “The Polish Republic Prosecution Service, that’s who’s bloody well asking! Yes or no?”

  “Darek Gąsiorowski, pleased to meet you.”

  “Mr Gąsiorowski, you might not remember, but a few days ago we saw each other outside the ‘Town Hall’ bar. I was coming out with Inspector Leon Wilczur, and you accosted us.”

  “Oh yes, I remember.”

  “What was it about? What
did you want him to do?”

  “I wanted Leo to help us, because we’ve known each other for decades, and if we went to the police like normal, they’d laugh in our faces.”

  “To help you with what?”

  Gąsiorowski sighed and wiped his nose nervously; he clearly wasn’t eager for more mockery.

  “It’s very important,” said Szacki.

  “There’s this one fellow, a fine fellow, who tramps about the district. He’s my mate.”

  “A vagrant?”

  “Not exactly, they say he’s got a home somewhere, he just likes to roam.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s, I think it’s a sort of illness, he’s not all right in the head, you see, because when he roams you can set your watch by him. You always know what time he’ll be in a particular place. That’s to say, I know for example, when he’ll be here, and then we’ll meet up for a drop of wine and a chat.”

  “And?”

  “And lately he hasn’t come. Twice now he hasn’t come. And that’s never happened with him before. I went to the police, so maybe they’d find out, because he goes to Tarnobrzeg and Zawichost and Dwikozy and I think Opatów too. So they’d check, because, as I say, he’s not all right in the head; he might have got that illness for example, where you don’t remember nothing. Or he was walking along the roads, so maybe he’d had an accident or something – he’d want someone to come and visit him in hospital, wouldn’t he?” He fixed his gaze on Szacki’s bandage.

  “Yes, he would. Do you know what he’s called?”

  “Tolo.”

  “Short for Anatol?”

  “Yes, I think that’s right. Or it could be Antoni, they sometimes say that too.”

  “And his surname?”

  “Fijewski.”

  “Anatol’s surname is Fijewski?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anatol Fijewski. Thank you.”

  Szacki left Gąsiorowski and got out his mobile.

  “Shouldn’t I describe him or something?” called the fellow, getting up from the bench.

  “No need!” Szacki called back.

  As he looked at Nazareth House, standing on the other side of the road, his gaze slid across to Saint Michael’s church, which adjoined the baroque seminary building.

  Archangel Michael, vanquisher of evil, patron saint of all those who fight for justice, guardian angel of policemen and prosecutors, hear your faithful servant and let it be not too late. And just for once in this blasted country please let it be possible to get something done at a registry office after working hours.

  13

  Monday, 27th April 2009

  It is World Graphic Design Day, Independence Day in Sierra Leone and Togo, and Cardinal Stanisław Dziwisz reaches the age of seventy. In the news, the economic crisis is supplanted by the swine flu, which in Israel is known as the more kosher “Mexican flu”. The state of Iowa legalizes homosexual marriages, General Motors announces the end of the Pontiac and Bayern Munich the end of Jürgen Klinsmann in the job of coach. In Poland sociologist Jadwiga Staniszkis claims that President Lech Kaczyński will not stand in next year’s presidential election, Communist-era minister Czesław Kiszczak claims that introducing martial law was legal, and twenty-six per cent of Catholics claim to know priests who cohabit with common-law wives. In Świętokrzyskie province there is a puma on the prowl. In Sandomierz a decision is made to build a modern sports pitch at High School II, and next to a different, existing pitch yet another mobile phone falls prey to audacious thieves – this time it was left on the ground in a plastic shopping bag. It’s a lovely spring day, it’s sunny and the temperature is higher than twenty degrees. It’s dry, and in the woods there is a risk of fire.

  I

  Coming here was immensely, incredibly stupid – I feel fear, but above all anger. Anger that a stupid accident could end the whole thing now. It’s true there’s always a crowd of people at the registry office, a big crowd of applicants from all over the province, a random collection of people who have never seen each other before and will never see each other again. A crowd like this is on the one hand, safe; on the other, risky, very risky. I can feel waves of panic flowing through my body, and the numbered receipt I’m holding in my clenched hand is turning into a soggy scrap, so I’m sticking it in my wallet.

  Ping, two more people ahead of me. Two more people! I can feel the panic battling with my sense of euphoria. Two more people, then just a short stop at the window, then I leave the place and… it’s the end, the end at last!

  The panic is winning. I’m trying to occupy my thoughts with something, anything to kill the time; I try reading the regulations on the wall again, and the official announcements; I try reading the instructions for working the fire extinguisher, but it just makes things worse, I can’t understand the simplest words, my thoughts are racing, the hysteria’s rising so I can’t possibly do it. I feel sick, my hands are tingling, there are black spots starting to dance before my eyes. If I faint it’ll be the end, the end! That thought starts drumming in my head, louder and louder, faster and faster; the more I refuse to give in to it, the harder it drums, the greater my fear, the bigger the black snowflakes falling thicker and thicker before my eyes. I’m struggling to squeeze air into my lungs, I’m afraid I won’t be able to gasp out a word, I’m scared there’ll be a commotion, and that will be the end! The end! The end! All for nothing, the rest of my life in prison, pain, incarceration, solitude. The end!!!

  Ping, just one more person.

  No, I can’t do it, I’ll just leave slowly and forget about this stupid idea. I turn around and take two steps towards the door, but my body isn’t really obeying me, and a new wave of panic floods it, the nausea returns with increased strength, the fear pushes bile into my throat. Slowly, little by little, very slowly, I calm down, taking very small steps.

  Ping, it’s my turn right away – impossible, someone else has given up! It’s a sign! I go up to the window on legs of jelly, I feel as if I’m glowing all sorts of colours, as if my panic is bright red, glaring out of the security screens. Tough, there’s no turning back now. I hand in my ID card, answer a few casually posed questions, and wait for the lady behind the window to finish. I sign a receipt form, the clerk hands me a new passport, and its dark-red cover shines in the sunlight that’s pushing in through the vertical blinds. I say a polite thank you and leave.

  Soon he’s standing outside the large, hospital-like Świętokrzyski County Registry Office in Kielce. And he thinks the perfect murder does exist after all – all it takes is a bit of work and some savvy. Who knows, maybe one day he’ll tell someone about it, maybe he’ll write a book, we’ll see. Now he just wants to enjoy his freedom. He puts the passport in his pocket, wipes his sweaty hands on his fleece and smiles broadly as he saunters off towards Warszawska Street. It’s a beautiful, sunny day, on a day like this even Kielce looks nice. Now he’s calming down, relaxing, smiling at people heading at a rapid pace towards the registry office entrance, a pace that’s right for the provincial capital. The policemen standing at the bottom of the steps make no impression on him at all – after all, they’re in the right place, keeping order at the seat of power.

  As his euphoria grows, he smiles more and more openly at the people he passes, and when Prosecutor Teodor Szacki answers with a smile, he doesn’t immediately sense that something isn’t right – it’s just a nice, middle-aged guy, gone prematurely grey perhaps. That lasts a fraction of a second. In the next fraction of a second he thinks it’s someone very similar, and that his hounded mind is playing tricks on him. And in the next fraction of a second he knows the perfect crime does not exist after all.

  “Yes, can I help you, sir?” he says in an act of desperation, still trying to play dumb.

  “I’m the one who can help you, Anatol,” replies the prosecutor.

  II

  Later on, back in Sandomierz, during an interview that lasted for many hours, once the murderer had confessed everything, Szacki had to
contend with a strange feeling. He had sometimes felt empathy towards the people he interrogated, sometimes compassion, and he had sometimes even respected people who had transgressed and had the courage to face up to it. But it was probably the first time in his career that he felt maybe not admiration for the criminal, but a feeling close to it, worryingly close. He was trying very hard not to show it, and yet, as he learnt more and more details of the crime, now and then it occurred to him that never before had he been so close to the perfect crime.

  SUSPECT INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT. Grzegorz Budnik, born 4th December 1950, resident at 27 Katedralna Street, Sandomierz, higher education in chemistry, chairman of the Sandomierz City Council. Relationship to parties: husband of Elżbieta Budnik (victim). No previous convictions, advised of the duties and rights of a suspect, his statement is as follows:

  I hereby confess to the murders of my wife Elżbieta Budnik and of Jerzy Szyller, and to the abduction and murder of Anatol Fijewski. I committed the first murder, of Elżbieta Budnik, in Sandomierz on Easter Monday, 13th April 2009, and the motive for my conduct was hatred towards my wife; I had been aware for a long time that she was having an affair with Jerzy Szyller, whom I knew, and that day she had announced that as a result of this she wanted to end our marriage, which had lasted since 1995. That same day I put a plan into action which was designed to lead to the death of Jerzy Szyller and to my evading justice. I had this plan prepared for many weeks, but up to a certain point I did not take it seriously, it was a sort of intellectual entertainment…

  Budnik talked, Szacki listened, and the figures jumped on the digital Dictaphone. The chairman of the City Council, and until recently cold corpse, described events rather unemotionally, but there were moments when he couldn’t hide his pride, and Szacki realized that this intrigue, this one and only flash of genius that had happened in his office-bound life was this man’s greatest ever success. Or rather, second greatest – the first was leading Elżbieta Szuszkiewicz to the altar. Budnik related his activities exhaustively with all the details, while Szacki thought about their former conversation when – as it turned out, rightly – he had been convinced of Budnik’s guilt. And how he had reminded him of Gollum from Lord of the Rings, a character totally obsessed with possessing his “precious”, for whom nothing else counts, not even the precious object as such, but just possessing it. Without possessing his precious, Budnik was nobody and nothing, he became an empty shell, deprived of all natural and social restraints, capable of planning and committing murder in cold blood. The scale of the crimes was terrible, but even more shocking was the scale of Budnik’s obsession with his wife. Szacki heard about the underground, he heard about the preparations, about the starving dogs, and the weeks spent making himself look like the poor tramp in order to steal his identity, he heard explanations of the lesser and greater mysteries, the solution to which was obvious in any case, ever since he had hit upon the idea that Budnik had to be the murderer. But somewhere deep down in there he couldn’t stop wondering: Is this real love? So obsessive, so destructive, capable of the greatest sacrifices and the greatest crimes? Can you really speak of love at all, until you come to experience emotions as strong as these? Until you realize that in comparison with it, nothing else matters at all?