The Day of the Lie

Chapter Fifty-Six

A mildly eccentric benefactor had long ago made a curious bequest in Larkwood’s favour: a single bottle of Echezeaux, Gran Cru 1977. Given the size of the community it could hardly be drunk; given its provenance it could hardly be sold, the upshot frustrating the express stipulation of the donor that it be ‘enjoyed for a celebration of some special character’. It had remained at the back of a cupboard until Anselm informed the Prior of his intentions. Before progressing with the menu, however, he made a quick call to Krystyna, just to confirm his suspicions.

‘Well, I shouldn’t really tell you this,’ she said, merrily turned informer, ‘I mean, he told me not to say but since you’re friends, and he paid all the bills, I suppose there’s no harm. Yes, you’re right, he did stay here, a few months before yourself But that’s our secret, yes?’

‘As if you’d told me in the Warsaw Hall.’

In due course John came to Larkwood for a few days’ recollection before the academic year got underway It was his wont to snatch such moments. Celina would have come, too, but she was inundated with work that flowed in and out of season. If she managed to finish early — this was her message — she’d join them later. John didn’t say as much, but he’d evidently embarked upon a new life in recent months, tentatively making his way forward with Celina holding his arm. It was touching to observe; and consoling, knowing of the great devastation caused by Otto Brack. Autumn had dawned, tingeing the treetops with a hint of yellow The guesthouse was empty save for the two old friends. Lunch had been prepared in Larkwood’s careless kitchen. Anselm had begged for anything out of the ordinary.

‘What is it?’ asked John, tasting the puree.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ replied Anselm. ‘It’s purple.’

‘It’s disgusting.’

‘Try the wine. It’s a deep red.’

He did, suddenly slowing his movements, his mouth warmed by a revelation. ‘It’s un-be-lievable. Why are we drinking holy nectar?’

‘To fulfil a legacy’

‘May all your friends die with like intentions.’

John ate some puree and drank some wine, scowling and smiling by turn.

John, do you think I’m completely stupid?’ ventured Anselm.

‘I wouldn’t go that far. Why?’

‘Well, I’ve been reading Wittgenstein and I’ve found some clever ideas.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Two, in fact.’

‘Go on.’

‘First, someone who knows too much finds it hard not to lie:

John thought for a while. ‘Very true.’

‘And, second, a confession has to be part of your new life:

‘Agreed.’

‘Get going, then… or would you like a little help?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘John — ’ Anselm paused, letting the quiet grow rich and heavy, like the wine — ‘you knew Celina was the informer all along, didn’t you? You’ve known since nineteen eighty-two, shortly after you came home, I suspect, when you realised that the only other person who’d known you’d be at the grave of Prus on All Saints’ was someone close enough to open your journal… which you then destroyed, not to get rid of the evidence against you, but because it was a silent accusation against her; just as you brought proceedings not to recover your reputation, but to absolve her from the consequences of the crisis. If you had any doubts that her arm had somehow been twisted, she effaced them when she could no longer look at you. When she left on the day you’d won, though we all knew you’d lost.’

As if to punish himself for the subterfuge, John helped himself to more puree.

‘You believed that the Dentist had ruined you and you wanted retribution,’ said Anselm. ‘You also guessed that your dealings with him were linked with his plan to find Roza. Of course, your problem was that you didn’t know the name of the Dentist. There was no way of finding out. And even if you did know, how could you bring him to a court… no court would recognise any wrong, against you.’ He paused. ‘But then the SB-Stasi archive turned up in Dresden. How did you know it had been transferred to Warsaw?’

‘A report by Celina Hetman on the BBC World Service.’ John dabbed his mouth with a large starched napkin. ‘I went to the IPN and asked Sebastian to take me through the file on the Shoemaker. That brought me to Brack and Polana. And I found out, at last, why Roza wore two rings.’

‘Which explains how Sebastian came across Brack’s crimes in the first place,’ surmised Anselm. ‘There were lots of other files and he didn’t just land on that one. You were the first to open the cover and then he, like you, found himself in Roza’s universe, something unexpected and beyond his experience.’

John nodded, without guile, and Anselm concluded that his friend knew nothing of OLEK; that while they’d plotted a route to Brack, this had remained Sebastian’s secret. When John had sat in that Warsaw office, he hadn’t been able to see the pallid face of a man who’d just discovered his grandfather’s role in the Terror. He’d heard the tension in Sebastian’s voice, no doubt, and sensed the resolve, but had simply put them down to principle and ambition. They had a lot in common, John and Sebastian: they’d each been on the trail of family shame, driven by vicarious remorse, neither truly understanding the other. Anselm didn’t pause to reflect further; he said, ‘In fairness to you, revenge wasn’t your sole objective. Perhaps it’s not even the right word to capture the scope and breadth of your project — ’ he refilled John’s glass — ‘true, your aim was to bring down Brack for what he’d done to you, but far more important was your intention to bring justice into Roza’s life, clear your name by default, and — unless my imagination deceives me — to engineer the seemingly impossible: the recovery of Celina… whose voice you’d tracked on the World Service.’

John’s slow appreciation of the wine told Anselm he was right. Very good, John seemed to say Lots of depth, there, with nuance and a beguiling finish. Assured, Anselm went on.

‘Your primary objective — which fulfilled all your purposes — was to send Sebastian after Roza: to persuade her to give evidence in the proposed criminal trial. Because, from any perspective, the unresolved murders of Pavel and Stefan were by far the most serious matter. They stood tall in your mind, far above the risk of things turning out badly for yourself as CONRAD or Celina as an informer. Getting Roza into a courtroom was the all in all. And that is when the problems began.’

‘Because Roza was trapped,’ said John, slowly putting down his glass. ‘Which I couldn’t have anticipated. Sebastian rang me after she’d been to the IPN and we both accepted that we’d have to let Brack go. I never thought she’d turn to me. But after she left Hampstead, I thought of you, hoping that somehow, with Roza’s statement, and Sebastian’s help, you’d set off on the left, na lewo, and wangle your way to a point where the many lives lived in secret might be brought to the truth… mine, Roza’s and Celina’s. That you would speak for us all. And that with Celina’s exposure, sensitively handled, Brack could be brought to court.’

Anselm had nothing else to say At such times, Gilbertines fall silent. For some odd reason the apparent hiatus compels others to carry on talking.

‘When you called me for that meeting, I thought I was finished,’ said John. ‘I’d hoped you’d flush out the truth without anyone having to say anything, but you forced me to speak for myself I had to tell Roza about my relationship with Brack, which could only portray me as the informer. Which is why I asked you to invite Celina. I’d no idea what would unfold. I just realised she had to speak up, too… not to get me off the hook, but for herself… because this would be her last chance to come out of her hole in the ground… wherever it was she’d gone when she left me. In the end, Anselm, you said nothing; you made us all speak for ourselves.’

They finished off the puree and some braised matter that might have been lamb, chicken or pork. Fish was an outside chance. They argued about that one, unable to come to any friendly agreement. The debate threatened to turn violent, so Anselm rose to make coffee. Standing in the nearby kitchenette, he rummaged for biscuits, listening to John’s voice sail through the open door. The kettle began a low grumble.

‘You know, Anselm, there’s something that I can’t quite fathom about Brack’s behaviour.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘This is a man who hated the Shoemaker. He was into thought control, the suppression of free speech… he was up to his neck in class conflict:

‘Past his teeth.’

‘Well, part of his plan to trap me entailed the publication of the Shoemaker’s ideas throughout the English-speaking world and beyond. They’re out there now, thanks to him. Can you get more stupid than that?’

Anselm didn’t reply He was looking for the sugar.

‘You’d have thought that was a price too high,’ called John, wondering if Anselm was still there. ‘Same thing with Celina. He got her films released. And he never even seized that last documentary… yet he must have known that his dog-eat-dog superiors would lay half the blame at his door, since it came from his would-be daughter.’

‘You’ve answered your own question,’ called Anselm. ‘He got more stupid.’

More than John realised: Brack had destroyed JULITA’s file, too. He’d cleaned up John’s past when John would have had it exposed. Anselm flicked the switch on the kettle and the raging water gave a sigh. As he entered the dining room, a cup in each hand, John said, ‘What did you make of him?’

Anselm eyed his friend — his quizzical expression, the head angled — wondering just how much to say He’d kept quiet about Roza’s blue piece of paper once, and now he didn’t want to speak about the layers to Brack’s skin.

‘A man of hidden depths,’ said Anselm, guardedly.

That seemed reasonably fair. John mused upon it, as if waiting for the finish of the wine. Satisfied, he said, as though following on, ‘Tell you what, can we go up to the bell tower? It’s been a long time since we leaned on that ledge and talked cross-purposes, you mumbling about the cloister and me thinking of a singer in Finsbury Park.’

There was a strong wind that couldn’t be felt on the lanes below But up here, by the arched arcade, the current was almost threatening, pulling at the hair, rousing exhilaration. Four bells, still and imposing, hung beside their giant wheels. Ahead, the woods stretched far away rising and falling like a stilled ocean. Patchwork fields and roads knitted what remained into a sort of kingdom, lost down there, but wonderfully visible from this crow’s nest high above the monastery.

‘Do you remember, we talked about love? And you said chasing reasons is like… and I can’t remember what came next.’

‘Neither can I.’

‘That’s a shame because there are remarks that sow and remarks that reap. But yours do both, back then and since. Roza found her daughter. Celina came home.’

Words that sowed and reaped, coming from a man camped between the light and the dark: the Shoemaker would have approved.

The sound of gently churning gravel rose from far below A car swung into the parking area. A door opened and closed. Birds fled from the nearby plum trees. Anselm picked out a slim figure dressed in black. She was elegant, even at this distance. But what caught the eye were the shoes… bright red shoes, like sparks from a fire.

‘Let’s go, John,’ said Anselm. ‘Tomorrow’s already waiting.’