The Land Across

15 REVISITING

Like I said in the last chapter, I was planning to go back and look up Papa Iason. What stopped me was looking to my right down one of those short, crazy streets and seeing the front gate of the women’s prison. I was tired and hungry and my feet hurt, and it seemed to me that if I went there I could sit down and question a bunch of people—eight or ten, easy—and probably promote a sandwich and a cup of coffee or a beer. As far as anybody there knew, I was some kind of minor JAKA guy, and that ought to be plenty.

So I tried it. I went to the gate and said hello to the guards and told them I wanted to talk to the warden. They said it was too late. She had gone home, and the deputy warden was in charge. I said that was fine, I would talk to her, it was just routine anyway.

The deputy warden was a little skinny lady in a black dress with black hair that I would bet the rent was dyed and a face that had worn out three bodies. By the time I saw her, I had cooked up a story. I started by asking if she was familiar with Naala, a lady who was high up in JAKA, and the deputy warden said she had heard she had been here.

“I’m working for her,” I explained, “and she sent me here to do a little follow-up. We found out there’s a prisoner here who looks quite a bit like Rosalee Rathaus. This prisoner’s name is Yelena, and I’m supposed to ask her a few questions.”

I expected the deputy warden to say, “Yeah, no sweat,” or words to that effect. But she did not. Instead she looked like she had just tasted something sour. “She is in the infirmary.”

I said, “You’re kidding.”

“I do not jest. Ordinarily I do not know her. I would look up the name and so discover her full name and number. In this case I need not. She collapsed in the prisoners’ dining hall and was carried to the infirmary. She is turn blue. This I am told when I come in, and I look her up then.”

I said, “Are you sure this is the right Yelena? There must be plenty of them.”

“A scant handful, yes. More it might be. The Yelena you seek is where to sleep? Do you know?”

“Building One Twenty-four.”

“You must look here.” She pointed to her screen and I went over and looked at it. There was a picture of a blond girl who might have been a little bit younger than Rosalee. She did not look exactly like her because she did not have the cute nose or the cheek bones, but except for those they were pretty much the same type. The deputy warden pointed to a number in one of the spaces on the screen. I could not read what that space was for, but I could guess pretty easily because the number was 124.

Naturally I said I would have to go to the infirmary and ask her some questions and after that I would probably want to go to Building 124 and talk to some of the women there. I got a guide, not the same one, to take me to the infirmary. This one was a trustee and did not want to talk, which would have been super with me except that I was still hoping for certain things. So when I was sitting next to Yelena’s bed I pointed at her and said, “You! Go get me a sandwich and something to drink.”

It was magic. She hurried off without a word, and I looked down at Yelena and asked, “How are you feeling?”

She just shook her head.

So I told her, “I’m not a doctor, just a friend of Rosalee’s. You remember Rosalee?”

That got a nod.

“You look a lot like her. I bet people got the two of you mixed up sometimes.”

Another nod.

“Now I’ve got a serious question. Maybe you hated Rosalee, and if you did you don’t have to answer. Hell, you could just tell me to go off and have an intimate affair with a powdered-sugar doughnut. But if you like her, a little bit of cooperation might save her life. Do you know anybody, anybody at all, who would want to kill you?”

It brought back the head shake.

“Don’t just leave it there. Husband, ex-boyfriend, anybody. You’re really nice looking even when you’re so sick, and nice-looking girls have to tell guys to take a hike pretty often. Was there some guy who kept hanging around when you didn’t want him to? Maybe he followed you?”

That time she nodded and gave me a name, Ferenc. I asked, “Is that his first name or his last name?”

“Narkatsos.” She took time off to breathe. “Ferenc Narkatsos. He is a good man. He would not.”

“Nobody else?”

She shook her head.

“Somebody’s trying to kill Rosalee,” I told her. When I said that, I thought it was stretching things a little, but as soon as the words were out of my mouth I realized that I believed it and was probably right. “It looked to us like there was a chance he thought you were her, so I’m trying to check that out. I don’t like to pester you, and you’ve already given me one name, Ferenc Narkatsos. All right, I appreciate that very much, but I’m going to have to keep after you and try to get another one. Like maybe your boyfriend dumped some other girl and went for you? Is there a girl like that who might hold a grudge?”

“Nurse,” she said. It was more of a gasp. “Call the nurse.”

I looked around for a button or something like we would have in one of our hospitals, but I did not see anything. Finally I just went out in the hall and yelled, “Nurse!”

When I went back in, Yelena said, “Sit up. Please. I want to sit up.”

There was a crank on the bed for that. It was pretty obvious. I turned it until Yelena motioned for me to stop. Then I sat down again.

“Closer. I wish to die sitting up.”

I told her she was not going to die, she was going to get well.

When I had finished with that, she said, “I would die standing, if I could. Take my hand.”

I did.

“You are good man. I meet you so late. There are so few good men.”

We were quiet for a while after that. Then she said, “My heart jumps about and falls silent.”

And then she shook and threw her arms around and died. I heard her go and watched her eyes glaze over. I have hardly ever prayed in my whole life, but I did then. I was still praying when my guide brought my sandwich and a mug of something that was probably tea.

Here I am not going to write any more about it, okay? About leaving that place or tramping through the city asking directions or any of that shit. To tell you the truth, I hardly noticed it myself. I kept thinking about Yelena.

It was after dark before I found the rectory, but I figured that was good because a priest would probably be back home by that time. I knocked and the housekeeper opened the door and told me Papa had not come home yet. He was visiting the sick.

I said, “Maybe this is better. May I come in, please? I need to talk to you.”

She shook her head. “It is not permitted.”

“Please? I won’t hurt anything. I have to talk to Papa, and I have to talk to you, too.” I had my foot in the door, but she had not tried to shut it.

“Come closer, so the light is on your face.” I did, and she said, “You have been crying.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“You wish to tell me of it?”

“No,” I said. Only in a second or so I changed my mind. “Yes. Yes, I would. I need to tell somebody, and at the prison I didn’t even try. Somebody died. A girl named Yelena. Do you pray?”

The housekeeper nodded. She was maybe sixty or so, with gray hair.

“I don’t,” I said. “Or hardly ever. Only when she died I tried to. I knew God wasn’t going to bring her back, but I tried to talk to him anyway. I’m sorry! I’m s-o s-s-sorry!”

By that time I was backing away and starting to bawl all over again. I do not remember what the housekeeper said then, and maybe she did not say anything, just opened the door wide. Anyway I went in and followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the old table there while she made tea for us. Pretty soon I got myself back under control.

When she sat down at the table she said, “You loved Yelena but she died?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t love her. I love Martya.” I had not known that, either, until I said it. “But Yelena looked like such a nice girl and I was sitting right beside her bed. I’m an American.”

The housekeeper nodded. “I have heard of that. Drink your tea.”

I had not even known she had given me any. It was too hot to really drink, but I sipped a little. “I came to this country and I was staying with Martya and—and her family. We sort of hit it off, so we went to some clubs together to listen to music and dance. You know. Only then I had to come here.”

“You said you were in prison.” The housekeeper did not look like that worried her.

“I was for a while, yes. I’d been doing broadcasts in English, so they put me in prison for a while. They said I was going to get tried eventually, or maybe released. But it never really happened.”

She nodded, looking sad.

“Then your JAKA wanted me to help them, so they got me out—”

“The JAKA should not bother Papa Iason. He is a good man.”

I nodded, thinking of Ferenc Narkatsos. “I know he is, but sometimes they have to bother good people anyway. Sometimes they know something. You’re a good person, for example, but I’m hoping you know something about Martya that will help me find her. We think she’s probably in terrible trouble, and if she is I’m going to get her out if it kills me.”

“I would like to help you.” The housekeeper looked like she meant it. “Alas, I do not even know this person.”

“You saw her and you must have talked to her, at least a little. She was the girl who brought the hand to Papa Iason. That’s what we think, anyway.”

The housekeeper’s mouth got round and she sucked air, but she did not say anything.

“You let her in.”

She nodded. “Because Papa was here then. When Papa is here I let people in.”

“Something she said made you let her in. What was it?”

“It was nothing she said. It was the way she looked, like a dog that is kicked.” The housekeeper shut up and took a couple of deep breaths.

I said, “Go on.”

“Have you been kicked?”

“Yes,” I said. “Twice.”

“I also, but more than you. If I did not let in that girl, someone would beat her. I saw that, and that is why I let her in.”

I nodded to show I understood. “You must have seen that she was carrying something.”

“Yes. She has a basket.”

“I thought it was wrapped in a shawl.”

“She has a basket over her arm, a shopping basket.”

“Did she say anything about it?”

The housekeeper shook her head.

“What did she say?”

“She said…”

I leaned closer. “What did she say?”

“I cannot remember. I try to remember the words.”

“What was it about?”

“It was—wait! I find it now. She asks does Papa have a crucifix. She says he must have a crucifix. I say he does, and she nods and smiles.”

“You brought her in to see him?”

“Not then. He is undressing for bed. I go to him and tell him a girl is come and he may wish to see her, then I leave him to dress again. I see the girl eats nothing, all day it might be. I try to give her a piece of ham, but she will not take it. She is a Jew?”

I said I did not think so.

“She will eat only a piece of bread with butter. She eats that and drinks a little milk, and Papa is ready so she goes in. I do not hear what they say.”

I had some more questions, but they did not get me anywhere and then Papa Iason came home. He said he was very tired and I could see it was true. His face sagged. I think mine must have been sagging the same way. We went into the parlor. There was a little fire in there on the grate, and I remember what he had said about people not bringing wood in the summer. He took off his shoes, then apologized for it.

I said that was okay, it did not bother me. What did, a little, was the hole in one sock. I could see where the other one had been darned, too. So I said I wished I could give something to his church. I explained that I had no money at all, but I said I would get back on my feet pretty soon and then I would have money and would give something.

Then I told him what had happened to me, only with a lot more detail than I had told his housekeeper. I will not go over that again here, because you have already read it. I told him about Martya and Kleon and the Willows and all that.

“You’re going to lay into me good for sleeping with Martya,” I said. “She was cheating and I knew it, so I’ve got it coming. Only here’s the thing. I really loved her and I still do. I didn’t mean to escape but I was brought here at gunpoint, like I said, and I’ve never been back to Puraustays. Most of the time I was in jail, and for quite a while I was taping those broadcasts for the Legion, too. I hope I made all that clear.”

He nodded, and it seemed like he felt worse than I did about it.

“So the cops have shot Kleon, and Martya’s a widow—or I hope she is.” I took a deep breath. “That girl who brought you the hand? That was Martya. Or we think it was. Somebody wants to kill you, and that somebody’s got Martya and is making her follow orders. I mean to get her away from them.”

He did not say anything, so after that I said, “That’s what I want to do, and I’m going to do it or get myself killed trying. One or the other.”

After that Papa Iason was quiet for what seemed like a long, long time. I remember how he rubbed his jaw, and how the little fire hissed and popped. Then he said, “She told me it was an evil thing. That I must destroy it.”

I said, “You didn’t tell us that when I was here with Naala.”

He shrugged.

“Why not? I’d really like to know.”

“Because I did not destroy it, or even try to. There was a fire on the grate. I said there was none, but there was. She wanted me to put it in there when she had gone. Also to sprinkle it with holy water. Other things, too. I did not follow any of her suggestions. She thought it very dangerous. I did not. I thought it a dead hand cut off, a thing to frighten the credulous.”

“What did you do with it?”

“When she had gone? I have a leather case, strong and almost new, given me by my mother. It is a case for razors and the like. I put the hand in that case and put the case in my traveling bag, which I locked. You will ask why I did this.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I sure would.”

“I did not want Mrs. Vagaros to find it. It would have frightened her badly.” Papa Iason sighed. “After hearing this you will have more questions. Ask them.”

“Did Martya tell you her name?”

He shook his head. “You are sure this woman is one you met in Puraustays. I am not.”

I said, “You told the archbishop that the hand should be destroyed. That’s what he told us.”

Papa Iason nodded.

“You even offered to do it.”

“Yes, I did. I would destroy it tonight if he were to return it to me and tell me I might do as I liked.”

I said, “It’s old and interesting, and there’s all the tattoos.”

“I warned him about it and told him to keep it safe. I told him he must lock it up.” It seemed like Papa Iason had not even heard me. “I told you about my leather case. I keep my razor there when I travel, with my shaving mug and other things. When I opened my traveling bag after mass the next morning, the hand was no longer in that leather case.”

I thought that one over. Then I said, “When Martya brought it here, did she really bring it wrapped up in a shawl?”

He nodded.

“I would have thought she’d have it locked up someway. In a box or something.”

“It was in a shopping basket, such as every woman has. There is a lid, and a catch for the lid.”

“I see. Let’s get back to Martya. She told you to destroy it? No shit?”

“She did. She wanted me to grasp my crucifix in my right hand and with the left throw the hand she had brought into the fire. She appeared to think that might be enough, but if the hand was not entirely destroyed, I was to bathe it in holy water.” Papa Iason stopped talking to remember.

Then he said, “If it were burned to ashes, I was to douse the ashes with holy water, and cast everything into a swift stream. Our peasants think swift water a sovereign cure for evil, I’m afraid.” He tried to smile. “For this you must forgive us.”

“Sure. Did Martya tell you where she was staying? Did she give you some way of getting in touch with her? Anything like that?”

Papa Iason shook his head.

“Do you think Papa Zenon will find her?”

That one caught him off guard. For a minute he just stared at me.

“Well, do you?”

“I don’t know.” I heard him swallow. “Who can say?”

“You, mostly. You told him something that tipped him off to who she was. Maybe it even told him where she was—I don’t know. Now he seems to be gone.” (I was stretching it, but not enough that my conscience hurt me much.) “He’s supposed to be snooping around, right? That’s what the archbishop brought him here for. I’ve been snooping around all day myself, and I’ve never come across his tracks. Not once.”

“He is in the house for visiting priests, perhaps.”

“I sure hope so, but His Excellency brought him here to look for some really bad people. I guess you know about that.”

Papa Iason did not say anything to that, but he nodded.

“‘He that hunts the devil need pack a long spear,’” I quoted. It is an old proverb I made up myself right there in Papa Iason’s parlor that night, and I was proud of it. Heck, I still am.

“I would not want to see Papa Zenon come to harm,” Papa Iason said.

When I heard that, I knew I had him. I said, “Papa Zenon did me a good turn back in Puraustays. Maybe I told you. I owe him a big, big favor. So if he’s in the soup, I’ll do my damnedest to pull him out.”

Just about then, the housekeeper stuck her head in to ask if we would like some tea. Papa Iason said we would, so she brought tea and some kind of hard crispy bread with a pot of plum jam.

Maybe all that was good. It gave Papa Iason time to think and even worry a little. When she had gone and we both had tea and I had put a lot of their brown, grainy sugar in mine and stirred it up, he said, “You believe that I told Papa Zenon where the girl might be found.”

I sipped my tea. It was still hot. “Yeah. I do. If you were just some ordinary guy, I’d tell Naala and she’d have a couple of friends pick you up and sweat you. Only I’d hate to do that to a priest.”

“They would learn nothing, because there is nothing to learn. I described her to him as I have to you. If you want my description again, I will give it.”

I shook my head.

“I told him what she had told me. That I have told you also. She said she had an evil thing, one that must be destroyed. She asked whether I had a crucifix. I said I did, and showed it to her. She opened her basket and took out the hand. It was wrapped in a shawl, which someone had sealed. She broke the seals, unwrapped it, and laid it on the table. I picked it up to look at.”

I said for him to go on.

“I saw that it had been tattooed in life.” He paused. “My father did that work when he could not find other work. He was a stonemason.” Papa Iason stopped and I could see him remembering.

“Did you read them?” I asked.

“The tattoos on the hand? Some I read, yes. I have a lens, a good one an old woman gave me. She said I would find it hard to read my Bible as I grew older, and her lens would help me. I said she should keep it for her own use. This does not interest you, I see.”

I nodded and said, “What about the things you read, Papa? What did it say?”

“They were prayers, for the most part. Prayers to entities whose names meant nothing to me. Perhaps they were angels, fallen or holy. I remember a few, but I will not repeat them. The names of demons may be prominent in them, and when one calls upon demons they sometimes come.” He smiled. “Sending them home is less easy. So many find.”

“What about the things that weren’t curses? What were they?”

He thought that over. “There was only one. You are hungry.”

I had eaten three or four pieces of the crunchy bread with jam on them. “Yes,” I said. “This afternoon a lady brought me a sandwich, but I didn’t eat it. Somebody had just died, and I didn’t want it.”

He nodded. “Death does that, though one is very hungry afterward.”

“You don’t want to tell me about the writing that was not a curse?”

“No. When you ask I thought, why does he not read the hand for himself? Then I recalled that it was Greek. Can you read Greek?”

I shook my head. “Not a word.”

“It is a spell for finding treasure. It is on the palm, and very short. Would you like me to translate it for you?”

“No demons, huh?”

“You are right. There are no names in it at all.” He licked his lips. “It is a rhyme in Greek. I will make it so if I can. ‘All you ghosts tight-bound with chain, hear me well or here remain. Show me where your treasure’s hid, and I shall serve you as you bid.’” He smiled. “It would be a dangerous thing, or so I would think, to be bound to the service of a ghost, far more to the service of a senate of bound spirits.”

“Do you think it would work?” I was remembering what the archbishop had told us about the hand’s pointing out treasure.

Papa Iason shook his head. “Prayers by the righteous might free such spirits, or at least assist them in gaining their freedom. Bound spirits would not ask for those, however. Or so I think. The kinds of spirits who might ask such prayers would not remain bound for long. These are still attached to the things of this sad realm into which we are born. They would ask to be avenged upon men long dead, perhaps. More likely, they would not give up their gold for any vengeance.”

I said, “If they were real ghosts, I’d think they could get all the revenge they wanted by haunting people. Do you think Martya read the hand? Did she say anything about it?”

“She did not. Could she read Greek?”

I did not know, but I shook my head.

“Someone else could have read it for her and told her what it said, I suppose. She was not curious about the tattoos, or so it appeared to me.”

“Did she mention treasure at all?”

Papa Iason shook his head.

“What did she say the hand was for?”

“She did not propose any use for it. She said it was an evil thing—you will agree that it looks evil—and that it must be destroyed. I think she was too frightened to destroy it herself, although she did not say so.”

“Let’s move along to Papa Zenon. Maybe we’ll come back to Martya later. Papa Zenon came to see you when?”

“Yesterday, before you came. About ten o’clock, perhaps. I had said my morning mass and eaten breakfast.”

That reminded me of the archbishop and the bell tower. “Do you say mass every morning?”

“I try to. As priests we are required to say a mass every day and to read our breviary. On weekdays I try to say mine very early, so those who wish to hear mass may attend before going to their work. I had shaved and dressed, said mass, eaten breakfast, and looked through the newspaper when Papa Zenon knocked.”

I nodded. “You let him in?”

“I did. I was in the parlor going over the parish accounts. Mrs. Varagos was in the kitchen, washing up.”

“What did Papa Zenon say?”

“He introduced himself. His Excellency had called him away from his parish in Puraustays, and we talked a little about that. He asked about the hand, whether I had read the tattoos. I explained that I had read some of them, but not all of them. We talked for a time about their wording, whether they were prayers or curses. He feared they might be invocations addressed to demons. After that, he asked many questions about the young woman you call Martya. He even inquired about her shoes. I remember that.”

I nodded. “What did you say about them?”

“That they were plain black shoes such as many women wear. She had told me she was a poor woman, but—what was it I said?”

I told him never mind, and to keep going.

“I was going to say that she could not have been as poor as many here, since her shoes looked new. Also the shawl in which she had wrapped the hand is of good quality. Have I mentioned the wax seals?”

I nodded.

“They are very plain, but I showed them to Papa Zenon and he seemed interested in them. The pieces are still attached to the shawl, you understand. She broke them but did not tear them away.”

“You’ve still got them?”

“They are here.” Papa Iason stood up. “I’ll show you.”

He took out the shawl. It was larger than I expected, with a pattern of ivy leaves and a long dark green fringe. There had been three seals, all of red wax. The stamp on all three was a plain cross.

Papa Iason pointed to it. “The same seal made all three impressions. I have compared them carefully, and it is so. There is no writing, not even a trace. Either the seal that imprinted them is very old or it was cut by someone who knew nothing of the making of seals. I think the latter.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He got a wooden dowel and cut this with a pen knife. Probably he drew the cross on first, then cut around it. He did a pretty good job, but he was no pro.” I had already stopped looking at the seals and was looking at the shawl. It looked new, and it felt warm and rich.

What Papa Iason said next was exactly what I was thinking. “That is not the shawl of a poor woman.”

I should not have said, “Hell, no!” but I believe I did.

“It is of silk and lamb’s wool woven together. My cassock is wool and much rougher than this. But in a shop where such things are sold, I have seen cassocks of cloth like this. They were very costly.”

I spread the shawl out and saw a little label sewn into one side. I could not read it, but I borrowed paper from Papa Iason and copied it down. When I was sure I had all the letters right, I asked him to translate it for me. Here it is in English:

I said I thought the streets here did not have names, and he said, “They do not. It is the lily and the civet that bother you?”

“Sure. If they’re not street names, what are they?”

“There will be a sign. It will say ‘Lily and Civet,’ and there will be pictures on it. A lily is a flower.” He shaped a trumpet with his hands. “A civet is a kind of cat. Its fur has stripes and dots.”

“Got it. Do you know where this place is?”

He shook his head. “Look where costly things are sold.”

So I was back to the dress shops and so forth. Maybe I had walked right under that sign already, but if I had I did not remember it. I wanted to take the shawl with me, but he did not want me to and got mad, so I let him keep it.