Florian's Gate

by T. Davis Bunn

  He said something further to Katya, who nodded her agreement and then said to Jeffrey, “Every week there is an entire page of the local newspaper where they list in small print the car types, years, and license numbers of those stolen in the past seven days.”

  “A big business,” Jeffrey replied.

  “Very big, very organized,” the policeman agreed through Katya. “They have two normal ways of taking the cars across the border to Russia—that is, two we know of. Sometimes they pack the car in a wooden crate, put it in a big truck, and fill the remainder of the truck with potatoes. The border patrol can’t empty every potato truck—there are dozens every day this time of year.

  “The second way is to make copies of the customs seals used to close containers that have been checked and made ready for shipment. Then the day the ship leaves Gdansk for Russia, they load twenty or thirty last-minute containers, each with anywhere from one to three cars.”

  Jeffrey asked, “Can’t you get help from the Russian police?”

  The man shrugged. “Interpol doesn’t operate in Russia, and even if they did they wouldn’t bother with such a small matter as a car. Not now. Not when the rates of crimes involving bodily harm and death are rising like rockets. The thieves know they are relatively safe, and it is making them bolder. They have border guards between Germany and Poland who are now operating on the mafia payroll. When a nice car comes driving through, the guards ask the driver where he is going and where he plans to stay, and then they sell the information. The car is tracked until a good time and place arises for it to be stolen. Nowadays, however, the thieves swiftly become impatient. We’re getting reports that they follow the car to a filling station or cafe, kill the driver and the family and anyone else in the car, rob the bodies, and drive away.”

  He opened another pair of steel-rimmed doors and led them through the unkempt playground toward a metal shed. “Every week we are uncovering new scams. Last week, we learned that a group was repackaging used motor oil in false brand-name cans. This week it is a major Swedish company selling frozen fish. The market has been slow because not so many people can afford their prices. So when the expiration date was reached, they repackaged the fish into boxes and bags with new expiration dates and shipped it out as fresh caught.”

  He unlocked the shed door. “My men busted a ring of children used to steal household items. This was never a problem before—probably because so few houses had anything worth stealing. We were led to a warehouse full of radios, televisions, everything. We also found this.”

  The officer swung open the door, reached to an upper ledge and switched on a flashlight. The yellow beam hit upon a drinking horn. Jeffrey took the light, stooped over, and entered the shed.

  The horn itself came from a truly giant bull; it was well over two feet long if the curve were straightened. The horn was not chased in silver, it was sealed in the metal, inside and out. Three royal emblems were stamped around the horn’s mouth. A miniature knight knelt beneath the horn upon a rocky ground of solid silver, and with his back and both hands offered the horn cup to his master. From the knight’s dress and the ornate hand-carved battle scenes along the horn’s silvered sides, Jeffrey guessed it to be from the early sixteenth century. Gingerly he hefted the piece, guessed its weight at thirty pounds, most of it silver.

  From behind him the police officer said through Katya, “I have fought with myself over this for five days. I cannot answer the questions of right and wrong. I can see no further than the needs we have. I must feed these children. I must clothe them. I must give the sick ones medicine. I must heat the building at night. Some are criminals, yes, but they still are children, not animals. The government cannot help me, so I must do it myself. No one anywhere in Poland has declared such a piece missing, I have checked. So you must sell it. But not for me. For my children.”

  * * *

  The outer walls of the Vavel Castle were built of massive red brick, and crowned a hill of summer greens. Beneath the castle’s lofty visage flowed the calm waters of the River Vistula. A broad paved walk wound its gradual way up the rise to the first castle gates. Jeffrey and Katya joined the throngs of strollers and walked past the statue of St. George, who according to tradition did battle on that very site to make the world safe from dragons.

  Pavement gave way to brick cobblestones as they drew nearer to the first ramparts. The central church’s six domes were gold-plated, the acres of gardens bearing ancient gnarled trees, the inner towers imposing.

  The palace proper was reached through yet another set of ramparts. The innermost keep was a paved yard of perhaps two acres, and surrounded on all four sides by buildings five stories high. The palace was in dreadful condition, with very little paint and even less of the original murals remaining. Limestone stucco had been washed away by decades of wind and rain to reveal the raw stone, and in places the stone itself was crumbling. Yet despite the rust-covered ironwork and crudely reinforced pillars and a quiltwork of patches over the worst cracks, the palace remained enormously impressive—redolent of history, age, and tragedy.

  The castle museum had one room given over to paintings by the workshop of Rubens. It was dark and lofty, floored in geometric marble, windowed with tiny hexagons of glass still bearing the center mark of handwork.

  “There’s not much light,” Katya said.

  Jeffrey nodded. “Harder to detect a forgery. If it’s good.”

  The walls had probably once been gaudy with gold and silver gilt arranged in a series of intricate designs; now the gilt had faded to match the dull background hues. The ceiling paintings had long been lost to water stains and mold. Only the paintings hung from the walls kept a fragile hold to the breath of artistic life, and most of them were in dire need of restoration.

  Katya signaled to him from across the room. Jeffrey joined her and recognized the Rubens from the guidebook he had purchased downstairs. It was the smallest painting in the room, an oval portrait barely three feet high. It depicted an attractive young woman whose delicate face was almost overwhelmed by the stiff circular collar of her dress.

  The painting was a series of frames. An ornate gilded square framed an equally extravagant passe-partout, also gilded. This gave way to a dark background and dark clothing that framed a pale face, which in turn framed a pair of brilliant dark eyes. It was a masterful interpretation of a somewhat lackluster lady.

  Katya whispered, “What do you think?”

  “That I wish I knew more of what to look for,” he replied. “If this is an original and we take it any further, we’re going to look like proper fools.”

  “It’s very dark,” she said, moving up closer. “I can see little flecks of dust and stuff.”

  “If somebody was going to copy a major piece, this would be a perfect one to choose and a perfect place to hang the fake,” he agreed quietly. “Come on, we won’t learn any more here.”

  * * *

  “I may have found us a way out,” he reported to Alexander that evening. “Emphasis on the word may.”

  Jeffrey related the meeting and his visit to the museum. “There’s no way I can tell whether or not the painting is real, though. None at all.”

  “But your Mr. Henryk does not expect to be paid until the original has been found?”

  “He’s not my anything, and no, he doesn’t want a cent up front.”

  Alexander’s voice took on a touch of its old strength. “Then there is at least a slight chance that he is telling the truth.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “What we are most certainly not going to do is call in an independent expert. The fewer who know of this, the better chance we have of gaining our own goals.”

  “If this guy is for real.”

  “As I said, for the moment let us assume that there is at least a chance. At the same time, you must be very honest about your own lack of knowledge when you speak of it.”

  “Speak with whom?”

  “Yes, that is indeed the question.” A
lexander was silent for a moment. “Several years ago I helped the central Warsaw museum gather together a collection of paintings. It was not supported at all by the Communist regime, because we sought pictures of the royal city of Warsaw. We searched after quality pieces that depicted an era of our almost-lost heritage. There is now an entire wall in the Warsaw museum of some two dozen paintings hung tightly together, forming a collage of what our capital was like some three hundred years ago. One may look briefly and see a city of palaces and gardens and light, or linger and walk its streets, greet its people, enter royal residences and stand awed by their riches.”

  “It sounds beautiful,” Jeffrey said, relieved to hear the renewed life in his friend’s voice.

  “It was a most satisfying work. History has not been kind to Warsaw. The second World War reduced much of it to rubble. The pleasure we knew from bringing this collection together was immense. It was a silent call to all our people to look, to study, and to imagine.”

  “How it once was?”

  “No,” Alexander replied. “How they might make it yet again.”

  “So you think maybe one of those people you worked with is still around?”

  “There is a very good chance,” Alexander agreed. “I was brought into contact with a number of museum officials and painting experts who had no love for the Communists. You leave this with me, Jeffrey. With any luck, a few of them might have resurfaced in the Ministry of Culture.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Jeffrey arrived at Gregor’s apartment the next morning to find him up and about. “You look a lot better.”

  “Yes, thank you, my boy. My body has decided once again to be agreeable.” Gregor smiled warmly. “Life takes on a very special joy on such days. I feel more grateful than I know how to put into words. I was just boiling water for tea; would you care for a glass?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “I see no reason to interrupt the excellent work you and your young lady are accomplishing,” he said, moving behind his alcove. “There are a thousand other things for me to see to, and so if you agree we shall continue to meet in the mornings, and then go our separate ways.”

  “If you like. It’s been really nice working with Katya.”

  “I am sure it has.” Gregor reappeared and deposited a steaming glass on the narrow table. “Sit down, my boy. Make yourself as comfortable as my little dwelling will allow.”

  “I spoke with Alexander again this morning,” Jeffrey announced, pulling out a chair. “He may have found us a contact inside the Ministry of Culture.”

  “Excellent. I had no doubt that Alexander would locate a connection for us. He is positively brilliant when it comes to solving such puzzles. Did he say how he was feeling?”

  “I asked, but all he would say was that he felt he should return to Cracow. It sure would help me a lot.”

  “Whether or not Alexander returns,” Gregor said, “I don’t think you should count on his direct assistance just now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sooner or later he is going to have to face his past. If this is the case, there will be little room left in Alexander’s world for anything else. Call on him in emergencies, but otherwise try to give him the space and the solitude he requires.” Gregor brought over his own glass and eased himself down. “If only I can remember to pace myself for the next day or so, I shall hopefully not suffer another attack until the first frost. That is not always easy, however. I tend to be much harder on my own weaknesses than on anyone else’s.”

  “I don’t know, you were pretty tough on mine,” Jeffrey confessed.

  “Ah. You have been thinking about our little discussions, then.”

  “A lot. Especially at night. I don’t seem to be able to sleep. I think too much.”

  “The difficulty, my dear boy, is that you are trying to understand my actions from a perception based within this world. Why, you may as well try to understand Polish simply because you have learned English. The languages are so totally different that even the sounds you think you recognize represent different letters.

  “No, there must be a return to your life’s most basic building blocks. You have to start right at the foundation.” His eyes sparked with joy. “Which means you must begin by tearing down.”

  “You don’t make it sound very appealing.”

  “Of course I don’t. And it never will be, so long as you look at it from an earthly perspective.” He blew the steam from his tea and took a noisy sip. “The world says there is no greater tribute you can grant yourself than to say, I can make it on my own. My perspective says there is no greater deception.

  “The power within our own will and our own body and our own confined little world is comfortable, and it is tempting. It gives us a wonderful sensation of self-importance. Thus most of us will try to live outside of God until our own strength is not enough. Yet the way of the cross is the way of inadequacy. We need what we do not have, and therefore we seek what is beyond both us and this world.

  “Here, let us try this. Would you take a question away and think on it for a day or so, then come back and let us talk again?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Excellent. I will give it to you in two parts. The first question is, what would happen to your life and your world if you were somehow able to erase from your mind, your heart, and your memory—from your very existence, in fact—the motivation, ‘What is in it for me?’ ”

  Jeffrey snorted. “That’s impossible.”

  “We are not talking possibilities here, my boy. We are talking challenges. So. Will you do it?”

  “You want me to go out and ask myself, how would it be if I never considered what I might gain from a particular course of action, is that it?”

  “Precisely.”

  He shrugged acceptance. “And what’s the second question?”

  “The second, is, who deserves to be served in selfless devotion and total love?”

  Jeffrey waited. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it? That’s it? What do you expect from an old man, the keys to the universe?”

  “I guess you were right about it being a different language.”

  “Indeed I was. Will you think on these questions?”

  He nodded. “I can’t say I feel very optimistic about ever solving them.”

  This did not trouble Gregor in the least. “The asking is what is most important, my boy. Who knows, you may even find the answer there waiting for you.”

  Jeffrey shrugged on his jacket. “We’re supposed to be at our first buy in less than an hour. It’s time I was going.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. Here, let me offer you one little clue to help you in your search. You will find it possible to not just find the answers but also understand the questions only if you are willing to turn your back on this world. A single life does not have room for both worlds, my dear boy. You will eventually learn to hate one and love the other.” Gregor’s gaze left traces of light as he searched Jeffrey’s face. “Now, which world will you choose?”

  * * *

  The actress sat enthroned upon the splendor of a brocade sofa, surrounded by the lore of days gone by. Her apartment was a high-ceilinged collection of rooms in one of the beautiful old town buildings. The floors were of inlaid parquet, the silk wallpaper bore an oriental design. High arched windows were covered with plush velvet drapes.

  “When martial law was imposed on Poland in the eighties,” she said through Katya, her voice a throaty purr, “the militia filled the streets, breaking heads with their batons and making the world cry with their tear gas. In the Stary Teatr, we would make the nation weep with joy, and strive to fill hearts with the same hope the police wanted to beat to death. It was a sad time, yes. But for an actress with work, it was a grand time.”

  The passing years had honored the actress. Her formerly beautiful features bore the marks of age and too many parts played for too many people, on and off the stage. Yet her eyes were as clear as dark green emeralds, an
d her voice caressed and sang words that lost nothing by being in a language Jeffrey could not understand. Her hair was piled in an auburn wealth that filtered down in teasing wisps around her ears.

  “When the shops were empty,” she went on through Katya, “when the lines were growing daily longer, we fed their spirits. Our lives had purpose then. We were the voice of a people who were afraid to speak for themselves. We reminded them of who they were. The theater was filled every night, with people standing along the back and down the sides. We worked to keep our people alive, playing the classic Polish pieces, stories of patriotism and pride and endurance with success at the end. When we performed the plays of Mickiewicz, the audience would stand and shout the lines back at us, crying from their hearts the words which were forbidden to them in the outside world, but tolerated here as part of the play. We granted them a determination to survive the enemies of the night and the morrow.”

  The animation left her face with the departure of her memories. “Now the world is changed, and people struggle to put the past behind them. And the crowds do not come anymore. The theater has been saved by the new government, but there are few positions open to an actress who has committed the crime of growing old.”

  She waved a languid hand toward a glass-fronted display case. “These are gifts from people whose faces I cannot remember. Take what you can sell. I will use the money to spend a few more days reliving the time when my life had meaning, when I knew how to give the people what they needed.”

  * * *

  They left the actress’s apartment and continued on to a stretch of green which Katya called planty, lined on one side by the medieval town wall. Katya pointed out graffiti from student demonstrations against the Communist regime which translated as, Don’t kill us unarmed children.