Florian's Gate (24 page)

“Yes, well, Gregor is known to do such things.” Alexander drew on his cigar and emitted a long plume of smoke before
continuing. “It is important for you to understand that while there, I wear two entirely different labels. Or have, so long as the Communist regime was in power. So much has changed in recent months that my new roles have not yet been defined. But my former status I must take time to explain now, if you would please be so kind as to bear with me.”

Kantor paused to sip from his glass. “First of all, it is important for you to know that under the Communists it was illegal to export anything from Poland that was more than forty years old. To be precise, the law read that nothing made before 1947 could leave the country. But as with any totalitarian government—and believe me, young man, no matter what guise the Communists may have operated under, they were true totalitarians—the concentration of power within a few hands meant that
any
law could be circumvented if it suited the power-holders. The question was, how to make the power-holders see that my interests coincided with their own.

“By establishing this export law, Poland sought to preserve its historical heritage, or what was left after both the Nazis and the Soviets had ransacked the country from end to end. The problem was, only so many items of furniture or paintings or jewelry could be purchased and housed in a museum. And since there was no access to the outside markets, the prices for Polish antiques was set by the internal market. And this market, young man, was barely above starvation level.

“The summer before the Communist regime was toppled, a doctor in the capital city of Warsaw earned the equivalent of forty dollars a month. He or she survived by receiving gifts of food and services from clients who sought preferential treatment and medicines that were not out-of-date. That small example illustrates how close to collapse the occupying forces had brought my homeland. I could give you a thousand others, but you will see these for yourself soon enough. Forty years of Soviet oppression is not going to be wiped out in just a few months.

“As for antiques, the market barely existed at all. Pieces
that caught the government's eye—which meant anyone from a museum director to a greedy official—were sometimes purchased. But just as likely the owner would be questioned as to how he or she came to own such an item of capitalist wealth, and then it would be requisitioned. End of story.

“The result was that few pieces ever made it to the open market, and when they did they were available at prices that to our eyes would scarcely be believed. As recently as three years ago, I walked through an antique store in Cracow and spotted items that were selling for less than
one-fiftieth
of the price they would bring in the West. A nineteenth-century Biedermeier cabinet for one hundred dollars. An eighteenth-century Florentine writing desk for about twice that.

“Again, you must remember, prices were so low because most people were so poor, and the nation repeatedly suffered from economic turmoil. Money was set aside for purchasing food when shop shelves were empty, not luxuries like antiques. And the fortunate few with extra money usually desired something new, something manufactured, something that appeared vaguely Western. There was simply no market for old furniture. None.”

Alexander rolled his cigar around the ashtray until its tip was a brightly smoldering cone. “More than twenty years ago, I began advising the Polish government on items of national and cultural heritage. I will not bandy words with you, young man. I despise the Communists and their Soviet masters for what they have done to my homeland. But I am a Pole, and as you will soon discover, the Poles are some of the most patriotic folk on earth. They love their country, and it is only with great agony and despair that they will break with the land of their birth. I began this work as a means of maintaining some contact with Poland, and to help preserve a few of the remaining historically important antiques. Five years later Gregor developed his brilliant scheme. Not me, you see. Gregor.

“For over two decades now I have sought both inside and
outside Poland to discover items that are closely linked to our history. Jewelry, paintings, ceramics, porcelain, amber, drawings, and furniture. Limited funds were placed at my disposal. I refused to either requisition pieces or identify my sources inside or outside of Poland. Inside the country I paid a fair price—what to the seller no doubt was a fortune. Outside Poland I bought on behalf of the Polish nation, if necessary using my own funds.

“In return for this, the Polish government began granting me export licenses for high quality pieces that I felt would fetch handsome prices in the West. I have been scrupulous in my dealings with the government. Absolutely scrupulous. I take out nothing that could even vaguely be described as a part of our heritage.”

He puffed a few times on his cigar before continuing. “But there is so much that remains in our land from the centuries of invading armies and occupying forces. So very much. The history of our nation is not a happy one, and for a long and tragic time Poland even ceased to exist as an independent country. It is these items in which I deal, foreign-made goods if you will, and with which I have managed to create this little empire.”

It was long after dark by the time their plane touched down in Cracow, yet even so the transition was very harsh, very sudden. In the space of less than an hour, the Lufthansa plane had transported them from the efficient glitz of a new West German terminal to the dusty haphazard grayness of Socialism. The Cracow Airport was little more than a dilapidated warehouse with ugly appendages and gave no concern whatsoever to artistic appeal or passenger comfort.

Alexander was in his usual querulous bad humor upon their arrival. He passed through customs in utter silence, allowing Jeffrey to assist with his baggage. He then proceeded through the terminal and past the unshaven men offering
taxis and hotels, and walked out into the night without saying a word.

A slender young man with jet-black hair stepped from the shadows, gave a formal half bow toward Alexander, and said something Jeffrey could not understand. Alexander replied with a brief word, then said to Jeffrey, “Our driver. His name is Tomek. Almost no English, I'm afraid.”

Tomek met Jeffrey's gaze, solemnly shook his hand, motioned for them to remain where they were, and disappeared into the darkness. Beyond the airport's perimeter there were almost no lights.

“Things are certainly much simpler now since the Communists have been removed,” Alexander murmured, staring out at nothing.

“What things?”

“Oh, logistics for one. Visas took a month to obtain without connections or bribes or both. Airport arrival formalities took two hours, departures up to five.” He wiped a shaky hand across his forehead. “Waiting for taxis that never arrived. Being thrown out of hotels because a powerful Party official arrived unannounced with forty of his closest friends. Changing money illegally because the black market paid ten times the official rate. Waiting in line half a day to purchase a train ticket, only to find once boarding that your place had been sold to three other people as well. Standing in crowded train gangways choked with smoke, having your journey extended by hours because your train had been sidetracked to allow a freight train right-of-way. Shortages of everything and lines everywhere. Public drunkenness wherever you looked.”

Car headlights appeared out of the gloom and stopped. Tomek led them over to a relatively new, boxy-looking car called a Polonez. Alexander allowed himself to be settled into the backseat, then leaned his head against the neckrest and closed his eyes with a sigh.

Once the luggage was stowed and Jeffrey was seated beside Alexander, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“I'm afraid not.” Under the passing streetlights his skin held a sickly pallor. “This trip appears to have affected me more than usual.”

The driver asked a question. Alexander answered curtly. To Jeffrey he said, “We must stop by my cousin's for a few moments.”

“Shouldn't we be getting you to bed?”

“Perhaps, but Gregor is expecting us, and I was unable to reach him prior to my departure. It will be a short visit, I assure you.”

Jeffrey could make out little of the city. Once the airport complex was left behind, the distance between streetlights lengthened until they became glowing islands in a sea of black.

After a long stretch of silent travel, Alexander stirred himself, lifted his head and said to Jeffrey, “One word of warning. Gregor's health is not the best, as you will soon see. He suffers from some ailment of the joints—my guess is severe arthritis. You must be careful not to overtire him.”

“All right.”

“The truth is, I don't know what it is exactly that ails my iron-willed cousin. He refuses to tell me, no doubt for fear that I would make a fuss. Quite rightly, I might add. I am fairly positive that his condition would be treatable in the West, but has not received proper attention here. He went in for an operation some ten years ago and came out with the most wretched limp.”

“He won't leave to get medical care?”

“Gregor will not leave Poland for any reason whatsoever. You will find, if you work with him awhile, that my cousin can be the most exasperatingly stubborn old goat on earth.” The car slowed and stopped at the curb. “Perhaps that is why I care for him as I do.”

Gregor lived in a building that Jeffrey put down at first glance as an upscale slum. Even under the cloak of darkness, large bare patches of molding concrete lay exposed where the
plaster had flaked off. Wires crawled up the building, held at intervals by twisted metal bands nailed into the wall.

Gregor buzzed them through the front entrance and was waiting on the second-floor landing when they arrived. “Welcome, my dear cousin, welcome.”

“Hello, Gregor,” Alexander replied, making no effort to mask his fatigue. “I hope you are well.”

Gregor took Alexander's hand, grasped his other shoulder, and kissed him soundly on both cheeks. “You had your usual flight, I take it.”

“Horrible,” Alexander agreed, and turned toward where Jeffrey waited two steps behind him. “May I introduce you to Piotr's grandson. Jeffrey, this is Gregor Kantor.”

“A pleasure I have waited a lifetime to realize,” Gregor said, his English perfect yet heavily accented. He grasped Jeffrey's hand in a firm grip.

Gregor possessed the same regal features and strong gray eyes as his cousin. Yet his gaze held a gentler light, and his mouth a greater tendency to smile. “Come in, both of you.”

“Thank you,” Alexander replied, motioning Jeffrey forward. “I believe I shall remain standing.”

Gregor lived in the smallest apartment Jeffrey had ever seen. But after a few days in Cracow—after seeing entire families eating and sleeping and living in one room, after seeing buildings with one single stinking toilet for an entire hall of overcrowded apartments, after visiting complexes with a thousand families housed per building and twenty buildings lined up in rows like giant concrete monoliths—Jeffrey changed his mind. At least Gregor had his own toilet and heat and a window that shut and a gas stove and electricity. But Jeffrey did not know about all these things his first night in Cracow. When he walked into what he thought was the apartment's front hall and then realized it was the entire place he thought, I'd go crazy in here.

Gregor read his expression and replied with a smile. “I would invite you to make yourself at home, but as you can
see I don't have the room. All I can offer you is a chair and a cup of coffee.”

Alexander refused to move beyond the entryway. “Your phone isn't working again.”

“Yes, that is true.” His gentle smile urged Jeffrey toward the room's only comfortable chair. “But I do have hot water. If I have to choose between the two, I believe I would rather have a nice bath and meet personally with whomever I can't call in a clean skin.”

Alexander said to Jeffrey, “My cousin remains in this apartment in order to embarrass me.”

“Nonsense. I stay here because it is central and meets my needs.” He moved around so as to stand and look down on Jeffrey. With each of his right steps his body listed heavily, throwing his left hip out and arching his entire frame. He straightened, smiled down at Jeffrey, said, “I have long since learned never to expect a civil word from Alexander after a flight.”

Gregor was a frail replica of his cousin. He was as heavy as Alexander, and as tall, yet gave the impression of being scarcely contained within his frame. Jeffrey had a fleeting image of a strong breeze blowing him from his body, taking him to a place where those glowing eyes and warm look and gentle smile better belonged.

He remained standing over Jeffrey for a long moment, said, “He is the mirror image of his grandfather, don't you think?”

“My memory fails me at the moment.”

“You must have noticed it. Did you have an opportunity to know your grandfather, Jeffrey?”

“Not so well. He died when I was still a kid.”

“There. His voice even sounds like Piotr's.”

“Perhaps.”

“It is most certain. My dear boy, your grandfather was one of the finest men I have ever known, and I have known many people.” He smiled down at him. “I am sure he would be most proud of you. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“If it's no trouble.”

“None at all. I was just preparing one for myself.” He moved behind a ragged-edged curtain to what Jeffrey realized must be the kitchen alcove and pantry and, by the looks of things, a very cramped bathroom.

Alexander said, “You booked us into the Holiday Inn, I hope.”

“Certainly not. I booked you into the Cracovia, which is just around the block, as you well know.”

“It is also a testament to the Communist doctrine of minimizing taste and maximizing discomfort in their hotels.”