The Immolation of Eve

by Helen Fields

  ‘He is. Thank you. I’ll be alright now. I can get back to my hotel.’ He dipped his hat at me and went off about his duties. I did my best to look normal and started back to my room to get cleaned up.

  When I got in I locked and bolted my door, pushing a heavy chair under the handle. It wasn't that I thought anyone was actually going to try to get in, it just made me feel better so that I could go and scrub away the feeling of Marcus's hands on my flesh. There were no injuries except for the abrasions where I'd scraped the stone floor. At least I knew first hand that my concern about the lack of marks on Angela’s body were well founded. It seemed like a high price to pay to be proved right. I thought about Marcus's reaction when he'd come out of the cave; there was genuine horror on his face. If I'd thought any differently I wouldn't have hesitated to call the police. He might be odious but I never had him pegged as the sort of man who’d behave like that. It was as if he'd been possessed. I hated even to think something so superstitious, but possessed was the only word for it. I'm not prone to hysteria or paranoia but the face and voice of the monster who had me pinned to the floor in no way resembled the man I'd known for the last five years. I believed it when he said that it just wasn't him.

  As tempting as it was, I wasn’t going to sit around feeling sorry for myself. I had no sense of continuing threat and suspected the person suffering real anguish tonight was Marcus. Reception would hold the files from the security guard when he turned up.

  There was no doubt that Perun was the person I needed to find to answer my questions so when I’d caught up with my emails, I went back out into the city. I made my way to the New World Bar where Perun had found me last night. It was virtually empty and remained that way for the hour I sat drinking. In the end, after sipping another beer until I had no excuse to stay any longer, I rose to leave. A bar tender caught my eye as I stood and came over.

  ‘You Eve?' I was taken aback by the Australian accent, then nodded. 'A man left something for you.’ He reached below the counter from where he pulled a large envelope. It was light and had no writing or markings on the outside. I made no attempt to open it.

  'I've been sitting there an hour and a half. Why didn't you give it to me earlier?' I couldn't hide the irritation in my voice.

  'He asked me to wait until you were leaving, said you wouldn't be in a rush. We're a bar, not a post office, lady.' He tutted at me, understandably given my failure to say thanks, and went off to serve someone else. Feeling guilty, I left a larger tip than usual and left. I walked slowly, checking to see if I was being followed, but that was wishful thinking. It was my night for envelopes; the security guard had dropped off the papers as promised. I took them both up to my room with a nightcap of Lagavulin whisky from the hotel bar.

  I unlocked my room, threw the envelopes onto the coffee table and kicked off my shoes. Lagavulin is my thinking drink. I keep a secret bottle stashed in my flat. Whilst I don't touch it often, when I do I consider it a sin to toss it back without appreciating the art that went into distilling it. I swirled the whisky round in the tumbler and stared at the envelope. What was I doing, collecting furtive evidence from a story about a haunted cave and sitting alone in bars trying to catch a glimpse of a man I didn't know? My sensible voice (it always sounded vaguely like my first teacher) was telling me not to open the envelopes. It even suggested I should just rip them up, put them in the bin and go back to life as I knew it a month ago. Fight Albert's case on the evidence presented by the prosecution, no more wild goose chases and ghost stories. Perun is just an exotic man in a foreign bar playing games. Coincidences are just that, stop reading too much into everything. Go to bed. Go back to England. Go home.

  And so, of course, I did what any self-respecting woman would do. I picked up the first envelope, a letter opener from the drawer and slowly sliced it open. It was the file copies of incidents from the Dragon's Cave. There were more than I'd expected. Mainly made up from the security officers' incident logs, but also some letters from the police, I could see that the guard had highlighted at least fifteen different names and dates over the last three years. I needed to get the file translated for it to be any use in negotiating with Marcus.

  I held the second envelope for some time as I sipped the remaining whisky. Perun had been so sure I'd turn up. What if I hadn't? I suspected he'd have found some other way of finding me. Whatever was in the envelope, it was something he had his own reasons for wanting me to see. If it were just to help me, he'd have asked the bartender to give it to me when I first walked in. It was all part of a much larger game and I had no idea what the rules of engagement were. Having tortured myself enough with anticipation I opened it.

  Inside were two documents. There was a note, handwritten in English. It said simply, 'A gift to help you on your way to Brezno.' The gift was a photograph. It was A4 size and looked as if it had been taken without the subject knowing she was being filmed. The shot was a close-up of a woman's head and shoulders in black and white. She was turning profile, I imagined her looking round at someone next to her as her face was animated, her mouth open in mid-speech. She was in her early forties, with dark shoulder length hair, dressed in a simple shirt, no hat, glasses or jewellery. I couldn't even use the surroundings to guess the place or the year of the photo. Whilst I had no way of being sure, it was a fair bet that this was Adela Karas, my birth mother. Why else would I need it for Brezno? Perun knew where I was going and why. It had been one hell of a day. I left the debris from the envelopes where it had fallen, took the photograph without even realising it was still in my hand, and went to bed.

  Ten

  Saturday morning I was up before daylight. I packed what papers I had together with the photo and a change of clothes. It was going to be a very long day indeed.

  Aboard the train to Brezno I panicked before I’d even taken my seat, got off the train again and stood on the platform staring at the carriages. Having first thought that I could overcome my fear it was apparent I may have overestimated my own courage. I felt sick. All I wanted to do was turn round, go back to my hotel and get into bed. People were jostling past me to get on board and the guard strode down the platform slamming doors as he came. I took a step back. As he reached to shut the door in front of me I felt the relief of resignation and started to walk back up the platform towards the exit when my empty hands reminded me I'd left my bag on the train. I didn't care what else I lost, nothing mattered but the photo. It was all I had in the world that might lead me to Adela Karas. I wrenched open the nearest door as the whistle blew and the train's engine fired up. The guard was shouting at me at the top of his voice as I ran with the train, jumping on as it picked up speed. I slammed the door and collapsed against the wall. In a few moments I rose and walked, shaking with adrenalin, to where I'd stowed my bag, found it untouched and sank gratefully into the seat.

  The journey was unpleasant because of the memories it brought but uneventful in every other way. No one spoke to me or asked to see my ticket. No one sat next to me or glanced at the photo in front of me that I stared at for almost two hours. The trees outside were calm and motionless, without so much as the wind rustling the leaves. Apparently, this time, Slovakia had decided that I was welcome to visit. When the train pulled into Brezno I tried to get to my feet, only to realise that my hands were still gripping the arm rests. I don't think I'd moved them for the entire journey. I relaxed my fingers and willed myself to let go. Even so, I never wanted to board another train as long as I lived. My courage was spent.

  Seeing Patrick's smiling face as I walked through the concourse was the most welcome thing imaginable. For someone I'd only met once he’d certainly gained an extraordinary importance in my life. My steps quickened and by the time I reached him I was all but running. I put my arms around his neck and held on for dear life.

  'Patrick, thank heaven you're here. Sorry, I'm just a bit unnerved.'

  'Don't apologise. I wasn't expecting you to enjoy the journey. Come on, my car's out front. We'll sto
p and get you coffee on the way.' Patrick kissed me on the cheek and took the bag from my hands. 'Even under these circumstances, I’m very pleased to see you again. It's about a twenty minute drive. You're sure you want to do this? It might be a terrible disappointment.'

  'I'm here now, and I have to do something to make that journey worthwhile, even if it's only finding a dead end. I appreciate this more than you know. You must think I'm crazy.'

  'Not at all. I think you're very brave and I believe that being slightly crazy is tremendously helpful in life. Let's get on with this then, shall we?' We pulled away at a speed I wasn't expecting. He might be as mild mannered as a puppy but behind the wheel he was a tearaway teenager. It didn't take us long to reach the outer suburbs of the town. We found the block of apartments easily enough but it took some time to figure out the system of numbering of the flats. I gave a hard knock and stepped back waiting for it to be answered. Patrick said nothing but gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. There was no movement for some time until at last the door opened a crack.

  'Olga Hornik?' I asked.

  The woman behind the door said something I couldn't understand and then pulled the door open further. My heart sank. The face I saw was no more than 50 years old, clearly not Olga. Of course it couldn’t be that easy. Patrick stepped forward and began speaking rapidly in Slovakian, showing his identity papers from the embassy. The two of them continued to speak, the woman glancing at me occasionally. Eventually she walked away but left the door ajar and another voice could be heard in the far rooms of the apartment. When she returned there was a much older lady holding her arm for support. We were ushered in.

  'Patrick, what was all that about?' I asked.

  'That was Olga's daughter. She just wanted to make sure who we are. I told her you're after some information about an old work colleague of her mother's. How much detail you want to give is up to you. From here on in I'm just the translator.' Olga's daughter settled the older woman in a chair and moved cushions around to get her comfortable. Whilst she was frail, the alertness in her eyes showed she hadn’t succumbed to any sort of dementia. Patrick translated as we talked. It was difficult at first until I got into the pattern of speaking in short sentences and waiting for Patrick to do his bit.

  'Miss Hornik, my name is MacKenzie. I'm sorry that we couldn’t let you know we were coming but there was no telephone number. I’m trying to find information about someone who used to work at the hospital in Brezno where you were a midwife. Is that right?'

  'That's right, thirty-two years in the same ward at the same hospital. I've lost count of the number of babies I delivered.' Her voice was raspy and quiet but her eyes never left mine, even when it was Patrick speaking to her. 'You look pale, child. My daughter will make us some tea.' Her daughter, obviously concerned not to leave her mother alone with strangers, hovered for a few more moments until her mother shooed her from the room. 'Now tell me, what is so important that you have come all this way?'

  'Adela Karas. She was a nurse at the hospital at the same time you worked there. We found documents naming you as the midwife who delivered her baby. I know it's a long time ago but I just wondered if by any chance you remembered her?'

  She stared out of the window and I wondered if she would recall much at all from so long ago. I felt foolish suddenly, bothering this elderly woman with no real reason to believe she could help.

  'Why do you want to know? Is it because of the adoption? It was very hard for Adela, you know, but we all understood why she did it.'

  The room span for a second. 'So you did know her. Can you remember much about what happened?'

  'I am old, not senile, dear. I remember everything. Adela was forty when she got pregnant. She had been working at the hospital for about ten years. I knew her well enough to say hello and talk about the weather. We were not close friends but then we worked in different disciplines. She was a specialist nurse working with Parkinson's disease patients.' If nothing else, I had learned something about my mother from this visit. It felt like a gift from the Gods, just that tiny bit of information.

  'Did you ever meet her husband, Branimir?' I was curious about my father if only because of the way things had ended.

  'I saw him sometimes; he would drive to pick her up after late shifts. If we were finishing at the same time we would sometimes walk out together. I knew that they were desperate to have children. Adela was so happy when she got pregnant, they had been trying for many years. She was much older than most of the mothers I looked after back then. These days it's more common to have older women pregnant for the first time. I got to know her much better during her term. I suppose you could say we became friends.'

  'What happened at the birth?' I felt a growing sense of excitement. This was more than I had hoped for. Not just a vague memory of my mother but someone who really knew her. My face must have been flushed because Patrick raised his eyebrows at me enquiringly. I smiled at him reassuringly. Olga's daughter came back with a tray of strong black tea. Patrick paused while he sipped his politely and Olga took a drink to soothe her throat. I could hardly bear to wait for the rest of the story and only touched the tea to my lips before setting it down and leaning forward to encourage Olga to continue.

  'Don't you know that from the adoption papers? I assumed that you would have known the rest.' Olga looked ill at ease suddenly and put her tea down.

  'I just wondered what happened to Adela after she had the baby. We know that she had a little girl, named Eve, on 21 March 1983 and that the baby was adopted a few months later. There are no records other than that.' I kept my voice soft, afraid that Olga was changing her mind about talking to me. I had still not told her that the baby was me. I didn't want to stop her from telling me the story exactly as it had happened in case she tried to spare me any of the details. I fully intended to tell her the whole truth at the end.

  'Eve? Well, it was a baby girl and I'm sure the date you have must be right. But in the week Adela was there recuperating she only ever called the child Zora. Such a beautiful name! It means sunrise. That's the only time I spoke to Branimir, when he was visiting her and the baby. They had chosen the name months in advance, if it was a girl. Back then there was no way of finding out in advance, no scans until a couple of years later. They must have changed their minds about the name later. Adela was physically well after the birth but she was worried about Branimir. He reacted badly, you see. They had both been so excited all the way through the pregnancy and then Branimir didn't cope at all well after the birth. She left the hospital with the baby and I never saw her in person again. We knew she wanted to stop working and look after the baby, they were sure it would be their only one. Then we heard about the adoption and there were rumours that Branimir had taken the whole thing very badly.'

  'He ended up in an asylum and died there soon afterwards, I know about that already.’ I said. ‘But we can't find any records for Adela. Do you know what happened to her?'

  'It was all anyone talked about at the hospital for a long time. We heard nothing, you understand, for several months. I knew about the adoption but only because I was her midwife. After Branimir's death she must have wanted to get as far away as possible. Adela had been treating a patient on a regular basis and developed a very close relationship with her. The patient was a woman, about ten years younger than Adela, diagnosed with Parkinson's just as her career was taking off. Adela talked about her often when she was pregnant; she was an actress you see, Sabina Roman. She had just been discovered by an agent who saw her in a play in Budapest whilst he was on holiday. The Parkinson's was the only thing in Sabina's way and Adela was an excellent nurse who understood how to minimise the symptoms. When Sabina moved to America she asked Adela to go with her as her private nurse. I can only guess that with both the baby and Branimir gone she had no reason to stay here. As far as I know Adela never set foot in Slovakia again.'

  'She's in America.' I breathed out. 'Oh thank you, thank you so much. You've been more help than you co
uld ever know. I should have told you when I came in, but I'm looking for Adela Karas because I was the baby you delivered to her twenty-seven years ago.' I smiled into her eyes at the revelation but there was no reaction, only garbled Slovakian and Patrick repeating the same thing over and over.

  'Patrick, what is it? What's wrong?'

  'She's saying something I can't understand. It's a term I'm not familiar with. Just hold on, I need to make sure I'm getting this right.'

  Patrick asked a few more questions and there was much gesticulation and raised voices. Eventually Patrick turned to me and for the first time Olga did not meet my eyes.

  'She says you can't be the baby Adela gave birth to. She believes the reason Adela gave the baby up for adoption was because Branimir rejected her when she was diagnosed with Down's syndrome. Back then around here people still thought that babies born with disabilities were cursed and her life expectancy was low. Olga thinks that Branimir couldn't cope and forced Adela to give the baby up for adoption. I'm sorry.'

  I stood up. 'Patrick, tell her she's wrong. I have all the papers. It doesn't make any sense. Adela Karas was my mother.' I suddenly remembered the photo left for me by Perun. I grabbed it out of my bag and thrust it towards Olga.

  'This is her, isn't it? This is Adela?' Patrick looked at me, confused. Olga spoke to him again.

  'She says that is a picture of Sabina Roman, the actress Adela went to the States with. Where did you get it Eve? How did you know?'

  'A man gave it to me. He knows a lot more than I do, apparently. I don't know what's going on Patrick. Someone somewhere has made a terrible mistake. I'm never going to find out who my mother is, am I?' Patrick put his arms around me.

  'We'll find out. I promise I'll do all I can to help. We'd better go.’ He thanked Olga and her daughter. Olga patted my hand as I said goodbye but she looked like she'd seen a ghost. Patrick put an arm round my waist and led me back down to the car.