Andrzej Bursa - Killing Auntie

The order didn’t come. Instead a small, inconspicuous-looking man was pushed through the door, and the bolt clanged shut. There was nothing left to do but to kill time by observing the new arrival. The little man was sober. He looked around the cell without inhibition and said in a half voice:

“Blessed be the Lord.”

“ In saecula saeculorum , amen,” I replied politely.

The drunks, feeling secure again, resumed their mumbling and writhing on the floor.

“May I take a pew with you?” asked the little man without moving from his spot.

“But of course,” I agreed.

He approached with a mincing step and sat down next to me. In the faint light from the street I could make out a rough outline of his features. The little man was probably coming to the end of his mature years. He had a small but fine figure, and a beautiful profile. Ah, how many Romans had I seen in the corner bar where I ate my dinner. He didn’t have a coat. His modest, threadbare attire hung on him faultlessly. He was, perhaps, the last earthly companion to treat me in a kindly, human fashion. So I looked at him closely. The little man was sitting still but I felt emanating from him manly energy and concentration. After a few minutes he turned to me:

“Do you think they will be able to understand my reasons?”

“I don’t think they are capable of understanding anyone’s reasons,” I said. “Neither yours nor mine.”

“You are right,” he agreed. “I will be taken for a relic thief.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Funny, that,” smiled the relic thief. “The consistent following of God’s commandments always leads man astray … Were you surprised by my greeting everyone here?”

“No.”

“Excellent. I have nothing to say to people who are surprised by simple words. Such people bore me terribly. But it seems to me that you, sir, despite your tender age, have already acquired the wisdom of not being surprised by simple things.”

“Why do they take you for a relic thief?” I asked.

“Ah, this …” he smiled. “ I stole a golden arm.”

“From the Capuchin church? I know this golden arm well.”

“From the tone of your voice, sir, I conclude that you have lived in the New Town for a time and are familiar with the magic of the golden arm. I was troubled by it too, and more painfully than you, and for much longer. I’m twice your age. I’m forty-seven years old, nearly fifty.”

“The golden arm was, if I’m correct, given to the abbey in the seventeenth century.”

“Sixteenth. Your error is actually perfectly excusable, for it happened at the beginning of the Baroque period. In 1598 to be precise. Kazimierz Hermanowicz joined the order and the arm was kept in the abbey’s treasury. Only after his death in 1610 was it put on public display, thus fixing the conviction that the arm was in fact given to the order in the seventeenth century.”

“Do you know other details connected with Hermanowicz?”

“Oh yes. The question of the golden arm has interested me for a long time. The moment I heard God’s voice telling me to steal it, I began to study the matter in earnest.”

“Did you hear God’s voice?”

“Huh, let’s not simplify this …”

I didn’t hear the rest of the relic thief ’s answer. The drunks, after a rest, burst out with their madness again. One of them snatched the other’s belt with his teeth and now both were chewing on it, growling and tugging at it, each to himself. This tug of war went on for a while until an apocalyptic roar communicated to us that one of the drunks had lost his tooth. The thrashing on the floor stopped. Out came sobbing and words of succor. At last the two bodies rose and began to urinate in silence against the opposite wall.

“You were asking,” resumed my interlocutor, “if I heard the voice of God. I think we should not pose the question this way. I am not one for spewing revelations. God’s will speaks to us without any metaphysical packaging. It simply manifests itself through certain decisions and thoughts in our brain. Through a certain order of events in our lives. I, my dear sir, have been dealing in sacrilegious thieving for a long time now. But they were mostly trifles.”

“Trifles?”

“Yes. Do you remember that little cherub with a porcelain head, nodding thanks every time someone put a coin in the box? He was my benefactor for two years. Every week I knelt before the box, sunk in prayer, during which I would pick the lock with a needle and take out the coins. I was caught by accident, in a silly way, as usual. Later I was involved in other sacrilegious thefts. Small votive candles, and once I had a go at a chalice. But a serious matter like the golden arm I hadn’t tried before. It’s a difficult case. It’s possible I will rot for the rest of my life in jail.”

“Couldn’t you try a psychiatrist?” I was worried I may have offended the sacrilegious thief but he showed no sign of taking offense.

“It’s my only hope,” he replied gently, “but whether it’s going to be successful this time remains to be seen. It’s already helped me once, when I was put on trial for the chalice. I shammed it rather badly and they didn’t believe me. Only when I started explaining the true philosophical motivation behind my actions did the doctor write out a certificate that saved me from five years in prison. I think now I have to take a similar route. Tell the truth. Truth opens the gates of heaven. It’s interesting how many people claim to be following the teachings of Christ yet practically no one understands their true sense. So far it’s served me well. They take me for a madman. And yet it’s so childishly simple, like the sunshine. Since God created the sacred, he had to create the sacrilegious. Since at the root of our religion lies the legend about a murder, it’s natural that murderers have to exist. You killed a man …”

I shuddered. The sacrilegious thief didn’t notice and continued:

“In your case, the primitive desire of enriching oneself or exacting revenge …”

“I didn’t kill to enrich myself, or out of revenge,” I interrupted him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry into your personal affairs,” the sacrilegious thief apologized politely.

I said in an unnaturally high voice:

“I simply killed.”

“That’s OK too, young man,” my companion smiled gently, and then asked:

“Are you a believer? Please excuse the forthrightness of my question.”

“No.”

“I thought so. The youth of today is mostly unbelieving. Without unbelievers the church would not exist. But I do hope one day you will find your path to God.”

“It’s very kind of you to wish me well,” I replied politely. “Trouble is, I have very little time left to find that path …”

“Hm, true,” smiled the sacrilegious thief. “But let us be of good faith.”

My conversation with this kind man absorbed me to such an extent that I didn’t hear the steps in the corridor. When, pulled roughly by my sleeve, I was leaving the cell, my companion didn’t even send me a parting look. In the other corner the two drunks were snoring away, soaked in urine and blood.

“Student … Yes … Very well … Which college?”

I gave the name of my university. The desk sergeant looked at me sternly and disapprovingly. The policeman standing next to him smiled.

“A learned man,” he opined spitefully.

I was very ashamed. I stood humbly in my socks, holding up my falling trousers. They still had my shoes and belt. There came a moment of weighty, contemptuous silence. I smiled differentially.

“Citizen Officer,” I said, “Saturday. It happens …” and opened my arms in a gesture of hopelessness.

The duty officer liked it. He didn’t smile, but in his eyes there flickered a brief, humorous spark. He frowned and asked: