In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  ‘But where did you get the . . . ?’

  Mirek coughed sharply, cutting off Ania’s sentence. He glanced at Albin who was studying the end of his fork with great care.

  Ania was bewildered but then understood. The Bacon Priest had visited these parts recently. She smiled at Sylwia and said simply, ‘Rabbit stew is one of my favourite dishes. I have never tasted it so well cooked; but there is something in it I can’t quite define. A little sharp on the tongue. It gives it a richness.’

  Sylwia smiled at her husband and said, ‘I learned to cook rabbit stew from Albin’s mother. She came from the far north - Lebore. There they always put a little ginger in the stew.’

  ‘That’s it!’ Ania exclaimed.

  The two women started discussing recipes. Albin took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to Mirek. On an impulse Mirek took one. It had been a month since he had smoked. The tobacco was coarse, the smoke acrid, but he inhaled hungrily. The old man surveyed him through the smoke. Mirek had the impression that he was disapproved of; for some reason that unsettled him. It should not have. This couple were merely a cog in the wheel. A pawn to help create an opening and move the queen on. The old man should have mattered nothing, but for reasons he couldn’t define Mirek did not want his disapproval. He leaned towards him and under the voices of the two women said softly, ‘I . . . we are very grateful for your help . . . for your hospitality.’

  The old man waved his cigarette deprecatingly and said, ‘We serve how we can.’

  Mirek nodded and then, determined to reach through to the old man, found a little eloquence. He blew smoke through his nostrils, stubbed out the cigarette and said, ‘Yes, serve is a word I thought I understood. I did not. In the past months I have learned something of its meaning. I have learned that it demands not just obedience but unselfishness. Not just reward but true humility . . . I feel it in this house and in your company. We shall travel a little down a road, share that road and then part . . . We shall never meet again, but I will never forget you and your wife. You know nothing of our purpose . . . but you do know the awful risk you take. I will never know your real names - they don’t matter. I will never forget the strength of the people I know as Albin and Sylwia Wozniak.’

  The two women had stopped talking. They had heard the last part of his little speech and were watching him curiously. He felt intensely embarrassed. He had never spoken that way before. Anger at himself began to build. Then Albin rose and went to the sideboard and came back with a bottle and four small glasses. Wordlessly he poured the Slivovice and passed out the glasses. Then he raised his own and said, ‘Let us drink to our mother . . . to Poland!’

  ‘To Poland,’ they echoed and simultaneously poured the liquid down their throats. It burned away Mirek’s anger. He felt a glow that came not just from the alcohol. He could not understand what it was. Could not understand that for the first time in his life he was experiencing companionship.

  The women got up and cleared the table. When the sounds of crockery being washed filtered through, Albin winked at Mirek, got up and fetched the bottle to the table. With a practised hand he filled the small glasses exactly to the brim. There were no toasts this time. Just a relaxed silence. Mirek only sipped at his drink. He liked alcohol and its mellowing effects, but he knew its dangers. It was all right now. He could drink and go to sleep in safety; but out of a safe house it could be fatal. He knew its effect on him. It made him over-confident, sometimes arrogantly so. Over-confidence on this journey could be a disaster.

  The woman came back and when she saw the bottle Sylwia scolded her husband gently. Ania announced that she was going to take a shower and then go to bed. She kissed the older couple on the cheeks and climbed the stairs. Mirek watched her legs disappear up the steps. A few minutes later Sylwia bade them good night and followed her. Albin poured more Slivovice.

  ‘Steady on,’ Mirek murmured without great conviction. The old man smiled.

  ‘Don’t worry. This is the last one for the stairs. It will help you sleep well. Don’t worry about getting up early . . . sleep late.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ Mirek raised his glass to the old man but his thoughts were upstairs. The word sleep had made him think of the double bed and of Ania under the shower. He could picture her holding her head up to the water, her hair falling back, made even shinier by the water. Her body wet and glistening, water cascading between her breasts and buttocks and curved flanks. His pulse was quickened by the image. Suddenly he realised the old man was talking to him.

  ‘The last communication I had was a week ago. It indicated you were the cause of the increased state police activities during the past days. It’s not only at the borders, you know. There are snap road blocks and sudden searches all over. Do they know exactly who they’re looking for?’

  It was a question Mirek felt he could answer. He shook his head. ‘They’re looking for a man, presumably travelling alone. They don’t know his age or nationality. All they know is that he’s travelling clandestinely in Eastern Europe. They know his destination but not his starting point.’

  Albin grunted in satisfaction and downed his Slivovice.

  ‘Then the danger is not as great as I had feared. They are truly looking for a needle in a haystack.’ He smiled. ‘Two needles . . . It was clever of the Bacon Priest to send the girl with you.’

  Mirek stared at him and then shrugged and said, ‘Maybe.’ He too drained his glass and then stood up. He had heard the bathroom door open and close. ‘I’ll get to bed. Thanks for everything, Albin.’

  The bathroom was warm and moist and had a feminine aroma. Her toilet bag was by the washbasin. He unzipped it and went through the contents. Two lipsticks, a bottle of shampoo, a plastic bag of cotton wool, a comb, eye shadow, eye liner and mascara. And finally a packet of tampons. Unopened. He picked it up and turned it in his hand. Irrationally, he had difficulty associating tampons with a nun.

  All the items were made in Poland. He put everything back except the shampoo. He knew there would be shampoo in his own bag but perversely wanted to use hers, although he knew it would be heavily scented.

  * * *

  Ania was sitting up in bed reading a book when he came into the bedroom; a towel was wrapped round her hair like a turban. A long-sleeved flannel nightdress came up to her neck. Mirek guessed that it reached down to her ankles. Father Heisl would have seen to that little detail.

  She looked up as he came in. He was wearing a towel and carrying his clothes and shoes. Her eyes flicked back to her book. He folded his clothes neatly on the chair, then noticed she had laid out his pyjamas for him on the bed. He smiled and looked at her. She was rigidly watching the page. He gave a short laugh and tossed the pyjamas on to the chair. ‘I never use them,’ he said. ‘Usually I sleep naked - it’s healthier.’

  She was watching him over the top of her book. He saw the glint of anger in her eyes. With a melodramatic sigh he bent over his suitcase, rifled through the clothes and found a pair of boxer-style underpants. He held them for her inspection.

  ‘These will have to satisfy your sensibilities.’ With his left hand he loosened the towel. It dropped to his ankles. He had one brief glimpse of her startled eyes before the quickly raised book cut off her view.

  ‘Must you do that?’ she hissed angrily.

  He stepped into the shorts and remarked lightly, ‘Ania, you’ll have to get used to it.’

  There was a silence and then from behind her book she said harshly, ‘I will never get used to it. Obviously I will have to put up with loutish behaviour if you persist . . . but I tell you, Mirek Scibor, to me you are just like a smutty schoolboy. You happen to be in the house of a God-fearing couple. You should try to remember that!’

  Her little speech angered him. Especially the bit about the smutty schoolboy. He said, ‘I am in a safe house rented solely for my mission . . .my mission. You are just along for the ride, to admire the museums, enjoy the damned rabbit with ginger and the famous tavernas . . . And don�
��t bore me with your bloody moralising . . . Dammit woman, in that museum in Florence you admired old masterpieces. Some even commissioned by your high and mighty Church. They depict nudity, women with bare breasts, naked men with everything showing . . . everything, dammit! But in real life that’s sinful . . . I tell you, Ania Krol, that’s hypocrisy. Not blind hypocrisy . . . open-eyed. How do you think those pictures got painted? Do you think Botticelli and the rest painted from imagination? They used live models; so in logic they sinned while they created masterpieces for your Church!’

  She stared at her book as if oblivious to him, and he ran out of steam. ‘Oh well,’ he said with resignation. ‘You can’t argue somebody out of something they haven’t been argued into. You can’t argue with blind superstition.’

  He pulled back his side of the duvet and climbed into the bed. The springs squeaked. The mattress was soft. She realised that with his heavier weight it would slope towards him. She sighed to herself, anticipating a sleepless night.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  Like everyone ever asked that question, she turned the book to look at the cover.

  ‘The Rainstorm by Stefan Osowski. Sylwia lent it to me.’

  He chuckled. ‘I might have guessed. I had to read it once. I was quite touched when he finally found solace in God.’

  She glanced at him and saw the cynical curl to his lip. She went back to the book but it was hard to concentrate while her mind was waiting for the next comment that was bound to come. She said, ‘Do you want to sleep? Shall I switch off the light?’

  ‘No, carry on.’

  She did not want to carry on. She did not want to talk but above all she did not want to switch off the light.

  He said, ‘I’ll bet you’ve never read Kung. I’ll bet they didn’t give you his books in the convent.’

  ‘No, they didn’t.’

  He plumped the pillows behind him and made himself more comfortable. She waited for the inevitable.

  ‘Brilliant mind, Kung - and very radical. He puts forward a thesis that I would bet a lot of your priests would like to subscribe to.’

  ‘Really.’ She injected boredom into her voice but he wasn’t deterred.

  ‘Yes. It’s really fascinating. You see Kung hypothesises that celibacy and chastity are two very different things. Now by the infallibility of a Papal bull, priests - and of course nuns - must be celibate . . . That’s final, or until there’s another Papal bull which says otherwise.’ He warmed to his theme with obvious relish. ‘Now Kung interprets celibacy in the meaning that was originally intended sixteen hundred years ago. That is, without marriage. It does not mean without sex. Chastity of course meant then, and means now, without sex. If a priest, or of course a nun, gets married they break their vow of celibacy and under Canon law cannot remain a priest or nun. However if a priest or a nun,’ he laid emphasis on the word ‘nun’, ‘has sexual relations, particularly casual sexual relations, they can obtain forgiveness from the Church by making a truthful declaration in the confessional . . .’ He turned his head to look at her. ‘Don’t you find that interesting?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She closed the book with a snap and put it on the bedside table. The light switch was a cord suspended over the bed from the ceiling. She reached up and jerked it. Into the immediate darkness she said, ‘I think we should try to sleep.’

  As she slid down in the bed she heard him chuckling beside her.

  She arranged her pillows and settled herself. He did the same. She inched over as far to the edge as she could. He sprawled comfortably. For about twenty minutes there was silence, then he yawned deeply and turned over. She heard his breath deepen, then she stiffened as his hand landed lightly on her thigh. It moved slowly to her buttock. She reached down and firmly pushed it away. He rolled over grunting in his throat as though asleep. Another twenty minutes and she had begun to relax and finally feel drowsy enough to sleep. Then again he rolled over. This time his hand alighted above her waist and began to move up. Again she pushed it away angrily.

  ‘You don’t fool me. I know you’re awake. Stop it.’

  He rolled over on his back, no longer feigning sleep. The curtains were thick and the room was pitch black. After about ten minutes he spoke conversationally.

  ‘Ania, do you mind if I masturbate?’

  She jerked upright in shock, her hand swinging about for the light cord. She found it and tugged. He put a hand up to shield his eyes from the sudden light. From under it he said, ‘There are things you don’t understand about men. That’s hardly surprising. Now listen. I’m sexually aroused . . . very. That too is not surprising. When a man is aroused he either gets relief or he gets a pain in his testicles. We call it “lover’s nuts”. Now I’ve got it so I can’t sleep . . .’

  She looked down at him, breathing deeply in shock and anger, then she swung her feet to the ground and reached for her pillow.

  ‘Do any filthy thing you want, you animal! I’m going downstairs. I’ll sleep on a chair.’

  He rolled over and grabbed her arm.

  ‘No! It’s all right . . . I won’t do it.’

  She tried to pull away but he held her firmly. Earnestly he said, ‘Ania, relax. I promise I won’t do that or touch you again. You’ll never get to sleep on one of those chairs. If you insist I’ll go down instead but I won’t sleep either. Besides, it’s cold.’

  She tried to pull away again. He pleaded.

  ‘Ania, please. I won’t touch you. I promise on the memory of my mother.’

  He no longer shielded his eyes. She looked into them and believed him.

  Darkness again, and, for ten minutes, silence. Then his voice again. Low and husky.

  ‘It’s not such a bad thing, Ania. Old superstitions make a taboo about it but masturbation’s not such a bad thing. Doctors, psychiatrists, will tell you that.’

  She whispered bitterly, ‘You promised on the memory of your mother.’

  ‘I promised not to touch you and I won’t. I won’t touch you until you want me to.’

  She put her hands over her ears but his head was near and his low voice penetrated.

  ‘Did you never try it, Ania . . . lying on your cot in your cell in the convent. . . Did you never get warm feelings . . . in the night? Never slide a hand down there . . . rub yourself. . . feel yourself getting wet .. . open your legs . . . slide a finger in . . . maybe you used a candle?’

  Something in her mind snapped. He heard her sudden movement. The light came on, momentarily blinding him. She was standing by the bed sobbing in rage and humiliation. Her breath gusting out in short spurts.

  ‘All right! All right! You want to see a nun naked. All right!’

  She reached down and pulled up the nightdress first to her waist, bunching it, then up over her shoulders and head. She flung it to the floor. She was wearing a stylish white bra and brief blue panties. She reached behind and unsnapped the bra, and flung that to the floor. Her voice was twisted, hissing at him. ‘You want to see a nun naked? Look . . . look!’

  She pushed down the panties and stepped out, almost tripping, then stood straight. Her breasts were literally heaving. Her eyes had a madness in them.

  ‘Look, Scibor. A nun’s naked body. You want to feel it? Feel a nun’s naked body?’ She marched around the foot of the bed banging into it with her leg, then she was standing beside him.

  ‘Feel a nun’s body!’ She waved a hand at his middle. ‘Put that thing into a nun’s body, if that’s what you want.’

  He was leaning up on one elbow, his mind in disarray. Inches from his eyes was her ebony curly triangle. He could sense, smell its muskiness. His eyes travelled higher. He could feel his penis rising in automatic anticipation. Without prompting from his brain his free hand followed his gaze: over the soft swell of her belly, higher to her moving breast. His hand stopped there, sending tactile messages of perfection. His gaze went higher to her face. It was wet with flowing tears. Her mouth was open, lips shuddering like her body. Her eyes were narrow
ed. All he could see in them was unbearable pain.

  She sobbed. ‘Do anything, but, please God, stop humiliating me!’

  His hand dropped abruptly. So did his penis. He fell back on to the bed and covered his eyes, pressing his hands against them as if to blind himself for ever.

  * * *

  The dawn filtered in even through the thick curtains, casting a shadowy light over the bed. Mirek lay on his right side close to the edge. Ania lay in the middle, on her left side, an arm over his waist, her head resting among the hair on his chest between the opening of his pyjama jacket. They were both asleep as though drugged.

  An hour after dawn she woke slowly, slipping in and out of consciousness. Her face was against the nape of his neck. Drowsily she realised that her body was alongside his, as close as two spoons. She stiffened and then reasoned that the night had been cold. She must have rolled over in her sleep and instinctively, like any mammal, sought bodily heat. She was frightened to move. It might wake him.

  For another ten minutes she dozed. One of a pair of warm spoons. Then she heard the faint clatter of pottery from the kitchen below. Slowly, and with infinite care, she withdrew her arm and inched across and out of the bed and turned on the fire.

  He slept on as she dressed. At the door she looked down at his face. In sleep it was carefree and, even with the moustache, looking younger than his years. His nostrils flared slightly as he breathed. She stood looking down for several minutes, then she quietly opened the door and left.

  Chapter 14

  George Laker whistled while he worked. The big Scania thundered down the highway towards Hate. George whistled a tune from Joseph and his Technicolour Dreamcoat. He liked rock opera. He’d seen that one back home in Melbourne. Australia seemed a million miles away but he didn’t miss it. George whistled when he was happy and what made him happy was when he made money. The more the happier. This had been a particularly happy trip. Only two days in all, but he’d made a load of money. Twenty ounces of gold for taking the young couple in, two thousand sterling for bringing the old couple out. He changed tunes to ‘I don’t know how to love him’ from Jesus Christ Superstar and thought about the old couple sardined into the compartment below. They were Russian Jews. He never asked questions but he’d guessed they had failed to emigrate from Russia and had managed to get to Czechoslovakia, probably on a short holiday visa. Anyway he didn’t care. He did know that the two thousand pounds was already in his Swiss account. Probably paid in by relatives in Israel or one of the Jewish relief organisations. They were old but they seemed spritely enough. Nervous but in high spirits. They had readily accepted the Trepalin injections as though he was pumping pure gold into their veins.