THE INJURY TO his back is indeed, as Marijana told him, no great thing. By mid-afternoon he is able to move about, if cautiously, able to dress himself, able to make himself a sandwich. Last night he thought he was at death's door; today he is fine again, more or less. A dash of this, a dab of that, a smidgen of the other, mixed together and rolled into a pill in a factory in Bangkok, and the monster of pain is reduced to a mouse. Miraculous.
So when Elizabeth Costello arrives he is able to provide the briefest, calmest, most matter-of-fact recital of events. 'I slipped in the shower and twisted my back. I called Marijana, and she came and fixed me up, and now I'm fine again.' No mention of treacherous Johann August, no mention of the shivering and the tears, no mention of the pyjamas in the wash basket. 'Drago dropped by this morning to check up. A nice boy. Mature beyond his years.'
'And you are fine, you say.'
'Yes.'
'And your pictures? Your photograph collection?'
'What do you mean?'
'Is your photograph collection fine too?'
'I presume it is. Why should it not be?'
'Perhaps you should take a look.'
It is not that any of the prints are actually missing. Nothing is actually missing. But one of the Faucherys has the wrong feel to it and, as soon as he brings it out of its plastic sleeve into the light, the wrong look too. What he is holding in his hands is a copy, in tones of brown that mimic the original sepia, made by an electronic printer on half-glazed photographic paper. The cardboard mount is new and slightly thicker than the original. It is the added thickness that first gives the forgery away. Otherwise it is not a bad job. But for Costello's prompting he might never have noticed it.
'How did you know?' he demands of her.
'How did I know Drago and his friend were up to something? I didn't know. I was merely suspicious.' She holds up the copy. 'I wouldn't be surprised if one of these diggers was greatgrandfather Costello from Kerry. And look – look at this fellow.' With a fingernail she taps a face in the second row. 'Isn't he the spitting image of Miroslav Jokic!'
He snatches the photograph from her. Miroslav Jokic: it is indeed he, wearing a hat and open-necked shirt, sporting a moustache too, standing flank to flank with those stern-faced Cornish and Irish miners of a bygone age.
It is the desecration that he feels most of all: the dead made fun of by a couple of cocky, irreverent youths. Presumably they did it using some kind of digital technique. He could never have achieved so convincing a montage in an old-fashioned darkroom.
He turns on the Costello woman. 'What has become of the original?' he demands. 'Do you know what has become of it?' He hears his voice go out of control, but he does not care. He smites the copy to the ground. 'The stupid, stupid boy! What has he done with the original?'
Elizabeth Costello gives him a look of wide-eyed astonishment. 'Don't ask me, Paul,' she says. 'It was not I who welcomed Drago into my home and gave him the run of my precious photograph collection. It was not I who plotted my way to the mother through the son.'
'Then how did you know about this… this vandalism?'
'I did not know. As I said before, I was merely suspicious.'
'But what made you suspicious? What are you not telling me?'
'Get a hold of yourself, Paul. Consider. Here we have Drago and his friend Shaun, two healthy Australian lads, and how do they spend their free time? Not racing their motorcycles. Not playing football. Not surfing. Not kissing the girls. No: instead they lock themselves up for hours on end in your study. Are they poring over smut? No: unless I am mistaken, you own singularly few dirty books. What then can it be that absorbs their attention but your photograph collection, a collection which according to you is so priceless that it must be donated to the nation?'
'But I don't see what motive they can have. Why should they go to all that trouble to fabricate' – he puts the tip of his crutch on the copy and grinds it into the carpet – 'a dummy?'
'There I can't help you. That is for you to work out. But bear in mind: these are lively young chaps in a dozy city that does not provide outlets for all the restlessness in their bones, all the buzz of schemes and desires in their heads. Time is accelerating all around us, Paul. Girls have babies at the age of ten. Boys – boys take half an hour to pick up a skill that took us half a lifetime. They pick it up and get bored with it and move on to something else. Perhaps Drago and his friend thought it would be amusing: the State Library, a mob of worthy old gents and ladies fanning themselves against the heat, some boring bigwig or other unveiling the Rayment Bequest, and – hello, hello! – who is this at the centre of the piece de resistance of the collection but one of the Jokic clan from Croatia! A capital jape – that's what Billy Bunter would have called it. Perhaps that is all it amounts to: an elaborate and rather tasteless jape that must have cost more than a little of their time and perhaps some expert guidance too.
'As for the original, your precious Fauchery print, who knows where it is? Perhaps it is still lying under Drago's bed. Or perhaps he and Shaun flogged it to a dealer. Be comforted, however. You may feel you have become the butt of a joke, and indeed you may be right. But there was no malevolence behind it. No affection, perhaps, but no malevolence either. Just a joke, an unthinking, juvenile joke.'
No affection. Is it as plain as that, plain for all to see? It is as though the heart in his breast has suddenly grown too tired to beat. Tears come to his eyes again, but with no force behind them, just a watery exudation.
'Is that who they are then?' he whispers. 'Gypsies? What else of mine have they stolen, these Croatian gypsies?'
'Don't be melodramatic, Paul. There are Croatians and Croatians. Surely you know that. A handful of good Croatians and a handful of bad Croatians and millions of Croatians in between. The Jokics are not particularly bad Croatians, just a little callous, a little rough on the heart. Drago included. Drago is not a bad boy, you know that. Let me remind you: you did tell him, rather loftily I thought, that the pictures were not yours, you were merely guarding them for the sake of the nation's history. Well, Drago is part of that history too, remember. What harm is there, thinks Drago, in inserting a Jokic into the national memory, even if somewhat prematurely – grandpa Jokic, for instance? Just a lark, whose consequences he may not have thought through; but then, among the unruly young, how many think through the consequences of their acts?'
'Grandpa Jokic?'
'Yes. Miroslav's father. You didn't think it was Miroslav himself in the picture, did you? But bear up, all is not lost. In fact, if you are lucky, nothing is lost. Ten to one your beloved Fauchery is still in Drago's hands. Tell him you will call the police if it is not returned at once.'
He shakes his head. 'No. He will just take fright and burn it.'
'Then speak to his mother. Speak to Marijana. She will be embarrassed. She will do anything to protect her first-born.'
'Anything?'
'She will take the blame on herself. She is, after all, the picture-restorer in the family.'
'And then?'
'I don't know. What happens after that is up to you. If you want to go on and make a scene, you can make a scene. If not, not.'
'I don't want a scene. I just want to hear the truth. Whose idea was this, Drago's or what's-his-name's, Shaun's, or Marijana's?'
'I would call that a fairly modest circumscription of the truth. Would you not like to hear more?'
'No, I don't want to hear more.'
'Would you not like to hear why you were chosen as the victim, the dummy?'
'No.'
'Poor Paul. You flinch away even before the blow can fall. But perhaps there will be no blow. Perhaps Marijana will prostrate herself before you. Mea culpa. Do with me as you wish. And so forth. You will never be sure unless you have a scene with her. Can't I persuade you? Otherwise what will you be left with? An inconsequential story about being taken for a ride by the gypsies, the high-coloured gypsy woman and the handsome gypsy youth. Not the main thing at all, the distinguished thing.'
'No. Absolutely not. I refuse. No scenes. No threats. If you knew, Elizabeth, how sick and tired I am of being nudged by you this way and that to further these crazy stories in your head! I can see what you want. You would like me to – what is the word? – exploit Marijana. Then you hope the husband will find out and shoot me or beat me up. That is the kind of main thing you are hoping I will produce, isn't it? – sex, jealousy, violence, action of the most vulgar kind.'
'Don't be ridiculous, Paul. You don't resolve a crisis like the present one, whose essence is moral, by beating someone up or shooting him dead. Even you must recognise that. But if my suggestion offends you, I withdraw it. Don't speak to Drago. Don't speak to his mother. If I can't persuade you, I certainly can't force you. If you are happy to lose your precious picture, so be it.'
Speak to Marijana, the Costello woman tells him. But what can he say? Marijana? Hello, how are you? I want to apologise for what I said the other night, the night I tripped in the shower, I don't know what came over me. I must have lost my head. By the way, I notice that one of the photographs in my collection is missing. Do you think you could ask Drago to look in his rucksack and see if he hasn't packed it by mistake? Above all he must not accuse. If he accuses, the Jokics will deny, and that will be the end of whatever tenuous status he still holds among them – patienthood, clientship.
Rather than telephone Marijana, perhaps he should write another of his letters, suppressing the lability this time, taking the utmost care with the wording, giving a cool, sensible exposition of his situation vis-a-vis her, vis-a-vis Drago, vis-a-vis the missing photograph. But who writes letters nowadays? Who reads them? Did Marijana read his first letter? Did she even receive it? She gave no sign.
A memory comes back: a childhood visit to Paris, to the Galeries Lafayette; watching scraps of paper being screwed into cartouches and shot from one department to another along pneumatic tubes. When the hatch in the tube was opened, he remembers, there came from the bowels of the apparatus a subdued roar of air. A vanished system of communication. A vanished world, rationalised out of existence. What happened to them, all those silvery cartouches? Melted down, probably, for shell casings or guided missiles.
But perhaps with Croatians it is different. Perhaps back in the old country there are still aunts and grandmothers who write letters to their far-flung family in Canada, in Brazil, in Australia, and put stamps on them, and drop them in the mailbox: Ivanka has won the class prize for recitation, the brindled cow has calved, how are you, when will we see you again? So perhaps the Jokics will not find it so odd to be addressed through the mails.
Dear Miroslav, he writes.
I tried to break up your home, so no doubt you feel I ought to shut up and accept whatever punishment the gods visit on me. Well, I will not shut up. A rare photograph belonging to me has disappeared and I would like it back. (Let me add that Drago will not be able to sell it, it is too well known in the trade.)
If you don't know what I am talking about, ask your son, ask your wife.
But that is not why I am writing. I am writing to make a proposal.
You suspect me of having designs upon your wife. You are right. But do not jump to conclusions about what kind of designs they are.
It is not just money that I offer. I offer certain intangibles too, human intangibles, by which I mean principally love. I employed the word godfather, if not to you then to Marijana. Or perhaps I did not utter the word, merely thought it. My proposal is as follows. In return for a substantial loan of indefinite term, to cover the education of Drago and perhaps other of your children, can you find a place in your hearth and in your home, in your heart and home, for a godfather?
I do not know whether in Catholic Croatia you have the institution of the godfather. Perhaps yes, perhaps no. The books I have consulted do not say. But you must be familiar with the concept. The godfather is the man who stands by the side of the father at the baptismal font, or hovers over his head, giving his blessing to the child and swearing his lifelong support. As the priest in the ritual of baptism is the personification of the Son and intercessor, and the father is of course the Father, so the godfather is the personification of the Holy Ghost. At least that is how I conceive of it. A figure without substance, ghostly, beyond anger and desire.
You live in Munno Para, some distance from the city. It is no easy matter for me, in my present reduced state, to come visiting. Nevertheless, will you in principle open your home to me? I want nothing in return, nothing tangible, beyond perhaps a key to the back door. I certainly harbour no plan to take your wife and children away from you. I ask merely to hover, to open my breast, at times when you are elsewhere occupied, and pour out my heart's blessings upon your family.
Drago should have no trouble, by now, in comprehending what place I aspire to in the household. The younger children may find it more difficult. If you choose to say nothing to them for the present, I will understand.
I know a proposal of this kind was not what you expected when you began to read this letter. I mentioned to an acquaintance of mine what has been going on in my flat – the disappearance of the item from my photograph collection and so forth – and she suggested that I call in the police. But nothing could be further from my mind. No, I am just using the opening created by this unpleasant incident to let my pen run and my heart speak (besides, how many letters does one have a chance to write nowadays?).
I don't know how you yourself feel about letters. Given that you come from an older and in some respects better world, perhaps you will not find it strange to take up the pen in turn. If on the other hand letters are alien to you, there is always the telephone (8332 1445). Or Marijana can bear a message, or Drago. (I have not turned my back on Drago, far from it: tell him that.) Or Blanka. And finally there is always silence. Silence can be full of meaning.
I am going to seal and stamp this missive now, and before I have second thoughts make the trek to the nearest mailbox. I used to have lots of second thoughts, I had second thoughts all the time, but now I abhor them.
Yours most sincerely,
Paul Rayment.