by Paul Park
3
The Invasion
11
Transformations
“MADAM,” SAID GENERAL ANTONESCU. “UNDERSTAND: The German army invaded Hungary after such a disturbance. They are looking for a pretext. They claim to be protecting lives and property. Now there are five regiments at the frontier.”
For Antonescu this was a long and complicated explanation. Enormous, gruff, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out into the piata from the third floor of the Winter Keep, in Bucharest. Dressed in a uniform of midnight blue, a star on each shoulder and on his throat, he looked out of place in the jewel box of the empress’s study. Out of scale also, his shaved skull in uncomfortable proximity to the ceiling. Though the empress’s secretary had poured tea for him, he had not picked up his cup. Nor, since he entered the room, had he sat down, and the empress imagined he was afraid he might break one of the delicate chairs, shatter the cup between his fingers.
He was watching a procession of priests. Their hands were painted red, and they carried branches ripped from pine trees, along with trumpets and bells. It was the feast of Lupercalia. “That is why,” he continued without turning around, “this is important. I have been informed the Siguranta has questioned this man, Hans Greuben, a German national and an embassy employee, about the jeweler’s death. The Siguranta and the metropolitan police. I have a letter of protest from the German ambassador. It must not be allowed in this current atmosphere. You know there have been riots against the German minorities in Transylvania, doubtless instigated by provocateurs.”
Again, this was a long speech for him. The empress turned her body in her chair and examined the back of his head, the folds of skin where his head joined his neck. A fragrant breeze came from the open window. “Do not bully me,” she said. “Someone else—the servant has confessed to the crime. I believe if you are interested, in one month you will see the sentence carried out.”
“Why so long?”
“Because there are people who think he is innocent. I myself—it is absurd. Why should he murder this man? It is clear he is protecting his mistress, who has disappeared.”
“You suspect her?”
“All the world suspects her. I have spoken to the chief of police. She killed this man Spitz without a doubt. Shot him—knocked him with a candlestick.”
The baron clasped his hands behind his back. “Why should she do such a thing?” he asked without turning around.
“Because she is an evil woman,” said the empress. Her teacup shook between her pudgy fingers. It clattered on the saucer as she replaced it on the table. “You don’t know her. She used to dance in the music halls before the newspapers discovered she was an artist. She seduced Ceausescu when he was deputy prime minister, though he was old enough to be her grandfather. God knows who was the father of her son who never learned to speak. She was a cruel mother, I have no doubt, and because of her he was put into an institution where she never visits him. It is only the Elector of Ratisbon who has taken an interest. He tells me he will bring the boy to Germany, to a surgical clinic there.”
The empress was agitated. She patted her red cheeks with a handkerchief. She was horrified by any cruelty to children.
* * *
THE GENERAL STARED out into the piata where the priests were leading forward a white goat with ribbons in its horns. He was looking south over the rooftops of the old town. At the limit of his vision, scarcely a kilometer away, rose the boxy headquarters of the metropolitan police. There in his prison cell, Jean-Baptiste sat playing chess. If at that moment he had been able to hear the empress profess his innocence, he would have been more worried than consoled. Perhaps he would have made a careless blunder with his pawns, which in this endgame might have been fatal. He had made his decision. He had no desire to revisit it, nor hear it questioned by others. His dirty, peeling cell in the Curtea Veche was comfortable to him.
Partly this was due to his state of mind, and partly to the efforts of his new friend Radu Luckacz, who had taken an interest in his comfort. The policeman had brought him books, extra blankets, tobacco, newspapers. He kept the rooms well heated. Often he shared some of the pastries and meat pies that his wife packed for him. Or sometimes, when he was able, he sat down to a game of chess, as he had now. It was a good occupation for the two men, as it allowed them to be friendly without requiring them to speak.
About Jean-Baptiste’s situation there was nothing to discuss. He was an old man with no living relatives. His small property he had already disposed of. His legal affairs had been resolved out of his hands.
They hadn’t much in common, the Hungarian émigré and the old man from Cluj. The one crucial area where their tastes and interests overlapped could not easily be mentioned, or admitted even to themselves. From time to time Jean-Baptiste would break the comfortable silence with an anecdote about his former employer, the Baroness Ceausescu—these stories were not connected to each other, or apropos of anything. Nevertheless the policeman listened avidly, sucking on his pipe as he perused the pieces on the chessboard.
“I was the baron’s man for many years, and his first wife. After her death we had a certain routine, and I remember when he told me he was to marry again. He told me the name—I was suspicious. I had seen the billboards at the Ambassadors. She was a personality, and there were rumors of scandal. So on my night off I bought a ticket in the upper circle—just myself. Every seat was full. It was a performance of Ariadne at Naxos—you see I didn’t think much of it at the time. I thought the baron was making a mistake. She was just a child. But now I find that I remember every movement she made on the stage. That’s what real art is, I suppose. You can’t get it out of your mind. I didn’t know much about it, but I could tell she had a spirit. And it was quite a shock, I tell you, in the third act, to see her in her torn clothes, her hands dripping with blood. I remember wondering what kind of employer she would make. To tell the truth, it was difficult at first. She had a great deal to learn about being a lady.”
Or, “I can tell you she found it difficult to entertain. The baron lost most of his personal associates after Prince Frederick’s death. But the house was full of people from the government, and sometimes I’d find her crying in a rage when she was asked to plan a menu for a dinner party. That was when we became closer, I think, because I was able to help her with the silver and so on.”
Now the baron’s house on Saltpetre Street was empty, and the baroness had disappeared. Unspoken also between the old servant and the policeman were any thoughts about where she might have gone. Domnul Luckacz, though he had made enquiries, had not seen her since the night he had taken Jean-Baptiste into custody.
* * *
THAT HAD BEEN THREE DAYS ago, in wintertime. Now, suddenly, it was spring. The air was fragrant, soft. Luckacz sniffed at it appreciatively as he was walking home along the Strada Iuliu, his hands in the pockets of his green wool overcoat.
He was eager to get home while there was still so much light in the streets. He was happy at the prospect of seeing his wife and daughter, but in front of him a young man hurried along the sidewalk. There was nothing about him to attract Luckacz’s attention, not his dirty boots or baggy clothes. Not his cap or ripped umbrella, or anything except the thrill that went through Luckacz’s body and his teeth. It was a sensation he recognized, and so he turned aside at the corner of the road.
Up ahead he saw a crowd, which was scattering and parting to allow two boys to come through. They were from the countryside, dressed as wolves and carrying, as the traditions of Lupercalia demanded, whips made of goatskin leather. They were hacking at the people as they passed. Seeking to avoid them, the young man in the baggy overcoat crept into one of the stone doorways of the houses that lined the street, and Luckacz caught a glimpse of his face. When the boys had passed, he followed him into the grounds of the temple. Its stone façade was decorated with pine branches, splashed with red water to symbolize blood.
Radu Luckacz was not
religious. For him as for most citizens, these celebrations had a civil function only. He was surprised, therefore, to see the young man in front of him pause in the temple vestibule, strip off his glove, and put his fingers into the bowl of holy water. In the church itself, which was full of incense smoke and soft music from the organ, he was surprised to see him slip into a pew, then go down on his knees in prayer.
The church was dark and full of shadows. Domnul Luckacz sat immediately behind the praying figure. To distract himself, for a few minutes he studied the gold statue of the goddess on the altar, the snake feeding at her breast. Then he turned again to the young man in front of him. He had removed his cap, revealing a quantity of chestnut hair.
On that first day of the springtime festival, most of the activity was in the streets. The church itself was quite empty. Presently the young man rose from his knees and sat back in the pew. Domnul Luckacz slid forward. Breathing deeply, he tried to catch some scent from the glossy hair, but could not.
“Ma’am,” he whispered, and the baroness stiffened, did not turn around. The policeman licked his moustache and his upper lip. He was aware suddenly of the sound of his own voice, of the officiousness and fussiness that he could not prevent. “Ma’am, I came to your house with the notary to take your statement, at twelve o’clock, as we had agreed. I was disappointed…”
Above the music of the organ, Luckacz thought he could hear a soft, deflating hiss. “Ma’am, it was impossible…” Dissatisfied, again he let his voice trail away.
“Have you come to arrest me?” whispered the Baroness Ceausescu.
“By no means. The statement was not necessary, because the man confessed. Only I would have supposed…”
Again the soft hiss of air escaping. “Is he well?”
“Ma’am, you must have read about it in the newspapers. He is in good spirits, considering the circumstance. There is one month left. I confess I don’t understand. I would have thought your statement might have prevented—”
This time she interrupted. “What about Herr Greuben? Did you question him?”
“I did, under limitations. There was a question of diplomatic immunity.”
Now the baroness turned around. No trace of the young man remained. “This was a murder charge!”
“Indeed it was, ma’am. Indeed it was. And it is my opinion that a statement from you would have prevented … Would have saved … There were extenuating circumstances that were never brought forward.”
“You don’t need extenuating circumstances. The man is innocent. Didn’t you tell me Domnul Spitz died of a gunshot wound?”
“I didn’t tell you. But it is true.”
Her eyes, as she glared at him, were almost purple in the half-light. He imagined his heart might swell and break. But he persevered. “Ma’am, nevertheless, there was the matter of the candlestick. And as you know, he has confessed.”
“That was to protect me,” she murmured fiercely.
Domnul Luckacz took out his pocket handkerchief to wipe his lips and wipe his cheek. He couldn’t look her in the face. “As you say. As for the German, we were not allowed to search his rooms. There was no evidence…”
“What do you need?”
“Please, ma’am. There is no point. It is too late. My superiors…”
“What do you need?” she asked again.
He shrugged. “Please, it is useless. He has an alibi, which is supplied by the Elector of Ratisbon. There is no weapon. Nor were we allowed to take his fingerprints, which might have been useful. As you may know, there was a chain made up of flattened silver links…”
All this time they had been whispering in the back of the empty church. Smoke from the candles in the side chapels, smoke from the incense braziers hurt his eyes. He dabbed at them with his pocket handkerchief. The baroness was clutching the back of her pew between her naked hands, and Luckacz recognized her signet ring—the pig of Cluj. Why did she continue to wear it? Altogether she was full of mystery. Now he glanced up at her face that seemed to hang disembodied in front of him: her high cheekbones, small nose, flawless skin.
“In any case,” he murmured, “it is too late.”
Candlelight gleamed in her hair. The light touched and made golden every hair of her brows and lashes. “What is important now…,” he murmured, then broke off, cleared his throat. “I believe he might appreciate a conversation with you. An interview. He is attached to you.”
These words were difficult for him to say. Again he felt a distance from himself. He listened to the sound of his harsh, ugly voice. “He is very … attached to you.”
Fierce as that of any goddess, her face drifted before him. He saw her clench her fists on the back of the pew, and he imagined she might strike him. “What good is that?” she said after a moment. She spoke out loud for the first time, and a young priest, hurrying down the aisle, paused to look at them.
“The Germans pushed you out of your own country,” she said, “and you did nothing. Now they shoot us in the street and you do nothing. What do you need—finger marks? Weapons? I can get you these things. The elector’s alibi means nothing, as you know.
“These men,” she said, “watch for me everywhere. You ask me why I left my house—I was afraid of them. Hans Greuben, I have seen him and his men watching for me in the streets. Everywhere I have seen them in their long coats—you must know this. Why do you allow these murderers to torment us?”
Luckacz kept his hat in his lap. He found he was kneading the brim between his fingers. “He would ask for a visit from you, if it is possible. I also…”
“Yes. But if I come, maybe Herr Greuben will find me there. Maybe you yourselves would find a reason to arrest me.”
“Ma’am, I swear—”
* * *
HOW COULD SHE DOUBT HIM? How could he earn her trust? But there was nothing to be done, because she was not afraid of being arrested. No, it was her guiltiness that prevented her from visiting the old man, her faithful servant, Jean-Baptiste.
No matter how she twisted and turned, the jeweler was dead because of her. And if she could not remember killing him, still she could not forget the feel of the soft white cord in her hands, when she had pulled it tight around the neck of that old lady in Mogosoaia—sweet God, it was intolerable. Sitting backwards in her pew, grasping the dark wood, she stared up at the stained glass window above the door. It took a moment for the pattern to come clear: a cat licking her paws, the spirit emblem of the church.
She looked again at the policeman, his thick gray hair and black moustache. He seemed nervous, the way he looked around. Why was that? What was this to him? But for all she knew, there were others outside the church. For all she knew, others would meet him here; she jumped up, seized her umbrella and her cap. Then she was outside, squinting up into a sky that contained both sun and rain.
No one was waiting. She put the cap on her head. Breathing deeply, she forced herself to walk slowly down the steps, out the iron gate into the street. She put her left hand into the pocket of her overcoat and swung her umbrella like a cane. Then at the corner of the street, she forced herself to read the printed notice on the wall, announcing that the murderer of Claude Spitz the jeweler had already been arrested, thanks to the deft and ever-watchful metropolitan police.
Swinging her umbrella, the baroness turned the corner and strolled eastward away from the river, until she found the poorer streets behind the university. This quarter, previously unknown to her, was where she had stayed since the night Jean-Baptiste was arrested. It was full of rooming houses and cheap hotels.
She had taken a room on the fifth floor of an ancient and dilapidated building. Her landlady, also ancient and dilapidated, seldom budged from the parlor on the first floor. Fat and weak-legged, she sat in the window soaking her feet all afternoon, peering anxiously at passersby. It was intolerable. The baroness would have to move. She had come here in search of anonymity, because the place was full of students who came and went at all hours. She had no
t expected to be studied and judged every time she came to the front door. Still she put her finger to her cap and smiled, even waggled her umbrella familiarly while she squinted at the sky as if concerned that it might rain. An elaborate pantomime: She shrugged, even put her hand out—palm up, fingers splayed—before she reached for the doorknob. All the time the fat old woman glowered at her from under her gorillalike eye ridges; what was the theory that Aegypta Schenck had packed inside her book? That men and women were descended out of apes? An absurd notion. Though one could see how it had occurred to her.
Absurd because we still have animals inside of us, as Cleopatra kept her cat. We are not the end of some process. That was Aegypta Schenck trying to make sense out of the world. Instead we all have animals scratching to get out, which is why sometimes it is so hard to stay in our own skin. Why our skin seethes and prickles and we wake up desperate—the baroness scuffed and banged her way upstairs. She kicked at the splintered banisters, the steps ground down. Each passage was lined with four or five doors. Each room contained some nameless striver. It was intolerable.
Now finally she stood at the door of her miserable room under the roof. She knocked and Markasev opened it, stepped aside.
He had not gone out that day. He had spent his time cleaning and recleaning the one small room, waiting for her to return. He had washed the windows, which had been opaque with grime.
She closed the door, hung up her overcoat and cap. She slid their supper from inside the breast of her jacket—a packet of cigarettes, a rasher of sliced ham. She put them on the table, which was covered with oilcloth. Markasev had already laid out two chipped, scrubbed plates, a loaf of bread, a pot of mustard.
From her pockets the baroness produced two bottles of beer. Markasev found teacups and they drank from them, sitting on either side of the oilcloth table while Markasev made sandwiches. The meat parted between the baroness’s teeth.
