William Brodrick: The Day of the Lie

‘This, then, is that the end of your concerns?’ asked the Prior. He bent his glasses into a workable shape and fixed them on to his enquiring face.

‘No,’ replied Anselm. ‘I’m ashamed that I want to look past his actions. I don’t know why I think it matters, but I do.’ Anselm dropped his voice as if he didn’t want to hear himself. ‘Brack, too, had an immensity to dwarf the stars. What happened to it? Could he throw away so much? Is it even possible? Is it even right for me to try and reclaim it on his behalf when, in his shallowness, he destroyed the immensity of others?’

The Prior was squinting now Bees were drifting round the clearing, in their own way rather busy ‘Anselm, do you remember when we were in the woodshed?’

He nodded.

‘I was working and you were watching? You wanted to understand everything.’

Anselm considered the first remark superfluous but he agreed in order to advance matters.

‘Well, I suspect you now understand far more than you want to, far more than is comfortable for any man: The Prior examined Anselm, aiming again. ‘But don’t change. Don’t lose heart. The hunger is part of who you are. It might enable you to help those who can’t be helped. People who deserve no help.’

‘What do you mean?’

The Prior stood up and settled a frown upon Anselm. He coughed lightly again, smuggling his arms into the sleeves of his habit.

‘You’ve always wanted to understand the criminal as much as you’ve longed to help the victim,’ he said, in a low, kindly voice. ‘That’s why I let you go to Warsaw It’s why I’ll always let you help people who’ve fallen between the cracks on the pavement to justice. You look beyond crime and punishment. You’re a lawyer in a habit, a man who asks different kinds of questions, who seeks different kinds of answers. And in that unusual position you’ll always hear things that others could not, should not and will not hear… sometimes from the victim, at others from the criminal, but always from someone who’d never say them to anybody else. You’ll see things, too, in the darkness: He regarded Anselm fondly as if he were somehow important, to him and to Larkwood. ‘This gives you a special kind of opportunity which only comes to those who, understanding that little bit more — who’ve seen behind the screen of guilt — can’t judge so easily and won’t condemn. It means every once in a blue moon you just might be able to say something of importance to the person who is rightly condemned… who can hear it, precisely because it comes from the mouth of someone who understands better than they judge. Maybe you helped Otto Brack, Anselm, when everyone else had failed. You were certainly his last chance.’ The Prior looked at his feet as if he’d drifted off a well-marked path. ‘There are lots of good people out there who defend the widow and the orphan, who bring killers to the courts of justice, and still others who speak up for the Good Thief. But I think there’s room for a troubled maverick who keeps an eye out for the bad one, the prodigal who never came home:

The Prior, having finished, seemed vaguely embarrassed. He nodded a few times and made a sort of wave, and then backed off towards the aspens. He passed through the low branches, head down, his scapular flapping in the breeze.

Anselm remained still for a while, astounded by the paradox. He’d gone to Warsaw as Roza’s public representative and returned as Brack’s private advocate. For the first time since he’d been at Larkwood the totality of his vocation had come together. The two parts of his life, past and present, converged, without the one eclipsing the other, bringing a new kind of focus. He looked around, seeing the enclosure with sharper eyes. He listened to the hum of activity; he smelled the crushed flowers and the flattened pasture. He was whole, though he hadn’t felt any previous fragmentation.

‘Thank you,’ he said, wondering to whom he was the more grateful: Roza for the light or Brack for the darkness. They were both curiously essential gifts to his self-understanding.

He rose, light-headed, resolved to tie up the one remaining loose end. Something from the grey region.

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.’