Rebecca felt herself floating in some bubble that was navigating its way between the ages. She was living in 1979 but felt that at any moment she would slip back two hundred years. On her way to the office she marvelled at the cars on the road and at the same time felt their transience. 1750 had passed. They had lived their lives much as Rebecca was living hers. In her eavesdropping on their lives she could see things had not changed all that much. I cannot bring myself to believe that I really ever was so happy. She understood that. Only too well.
She was conscious of time passing Monday morning and kept checking her watch as it crept toward twelve. She would probably have worked right through lunch every day but Iris had long ago taken it upon herself to structure her employer’s time more sensibly. Thus, no patients were scheduled between one and two. Iris would prevail upon her to take a break and eat something. Partly to placate Iris, she often brought a small plastic container of leftovers from home, a salad, some fruit, a bagel with tuna. Sometimes Iris headed for Chinatown a block away at Dundas and brought back some General Tso prawns or chicken in peanut sauce. They would spoon it over rice on the plates they kept in the cupboard above the small fridge jammed with drug samples. Then they would eat at their desks near the cabinets packed with colour-coded patient files.
On Monday Rebecca brought an apple and a pear in a paper bag.
At one o’clock Iris picked up her purse and headed for the door. “I’m peckish for some Chinese food. What can I bring back for you?”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
Iris’s round face scowled. “You have to eat.”
Rebecca picked up her paper bag with the fruit. “I brought something.”
Iris peeked inside, wriggled her nose. “That’ll be dessert. What about some sweet and sour chicken?”
“Really, I couldn’t.” Rebecca gave a half-hearted smile, knowing she didn’t fool Iris. Eating was still difficult sometimes. She was fashionably thinner, without trying, now that David was gone. He’d liked the meat on her bones. You’re a lot of woman, he’d said. Then a Groucho Marx flapping of the eyebrows. Red eyebrows. Orange hair. There was no reason to eat anymore.
But she did have something else to do.
As soon as Iris left, Rebecca escaped into her private office. She reached into her purse and took out the card the cop had left with her on Saturday.
“Eleven Division.” A man’s voice.
“Constable Tiziano please.”
“I’ll see if he’s here.”
“It’s Dr. Rebecca Temple. We met Saturday at Michael Oginski’s house…”
“Yes, I remember,” he cut her off. “What can I do for you?”
“I thought you might have some news about the autopsy. I’m a little concerned…”
“We don’t give out that kind of information to the general public, Doctor. And anyway, we don’t work that fast around here.”
“I’m hardly the general public, Constable. I was a friend of his and I’d like some reassurance that his death was an accident.”
“Do you have any information to the contrary?” he said with no emotion she could detect. A cop asking questions, piling up answers to sort out later.
“No,” she said.
“Do you have any reason to suspect foul play?”
She hesitated, wondering herself why she couldn’t let it alone. “Some things at the house just don’t seem right.”
“Go on.”
“He was writing a book and the end of it’s missing.”
Silence.
She knew how ridiculous it sounded. At any rate, she wasn’t going to admit she’d gone through his house looking for the rest of it.
“Anything else?”
“I just want to know why it happened. If he had a heart attack — well, it would clear everything up.”
“Look, Doctor, I appreciate you knew the deceased, but we have a policy here and it doesn’t include sharing information. We’re pretty busy here and —”
“I guess I’ll have to call Detective Wanless at Twenty-two Division. He’ll know what to do.”
A hesitant pause. “You know Detective Wanless?”
“I helped him on a case last spring. He and I are great pals.”
The former was true, the latter could charitably be called an exaggeration. She hoped Tiziano wouldn’t call her bluff. Wanless was a by-the-book cop who had not believed her patient had been murdered last April until Rebecca had nearly lost her own life.
“All I want to know is if he had a heart attack. To verify my own conclusions.”
He breathed into the phone. “This is just between us, Doctor. Call me later, after five. No promises.”
Rebecca ate her pear and stuffed the apple into the pocket of her black crinkle-cotton skirt. Throwing off her sandals, she put on the running shoes she had bought last spring when it had become apparent that her body was seizing up from lack of use. She had shut down after David’s death, and the running shoes were a symbol of rejoining the human race. She could never use that pun, but it amused her to say it to herself. Maybe she was her father’s daughter. Six months later, she was still in lousy shape, but better than when she had started.
She walked briskly up Beverley Street, the sun warm on her bare arms. At this rate she could get there in ten minutes. Maybe find the grad student and get some answers.
The larger houses she passed had been mansions built by successful businessmen in the late nineteenth century. Not so long ago, when she compared the stories of the eighteenth century she had become immersed in. Many of the humbler houses on Beverley were rented to gaggles of students from the university, four or six to a house. How she envied them their relatively carefree lives.
She crossed College Street where Beverley became St. George and more obviously university territory. The ivy-covered buildings on the east side formed the outside perimeter of King’s College Circle. Behind them, invisible from the street, grew a large grass round where students lounged or played soccer. Around this idyllic centre were arranged picturesque grey brick piles that defied architectural classification. How many times had she and David, while undergrads, sat down in front of the Sigmund Samuel Library watching young men in shorts lunging at a ball? Staring at the round was akin to sitting on a beach mesmerized by a lake. There was a calming effect no one could explain. She had spent her young adult life here and reckoned it was the most beautiful place on earth.
Heading toward the new part of the university, she turned left at the Sidney Smith Building, a white brick monolith honeycombed with square rooms lit by fluorescent lights that had induced stupefaction in her when she had the bad luck to have a class scheduled there. She marched up Huron Street, the whole block filled with Sidney Smith. She finally left it behind at Harbord Street. According to the address on the letter Edward had given her, the Slavic Studies department was on Sussex Street a few blocks north of Harbord.
The building turned out to be a drab, three-storey brown brick, probably an apartment in a former life. The sign on the plaque near the door listed the Italian Studies Department, First Floor, Hispanic Studies Department, Second Floor, Slavic Studies Department, Third Floor. Pitted concrete stairs and an old iron railing led up to a metal door. She pushed it open to find herself in a beige hall, a concrete staircase to her left, a hallway of offices to her right. No elevator, of course. Just her luck. Well, she had her running shoes on.
She hadn’t broken a sweat yet. The second floor was a cinch despite the burnt-out light bulb in the stairwell, the unswept corners. It was that last staircase that did it. By the time she got to the top she was winded. She didn’t care how ugly the place was. Okay, so she should do this more often. Maybe she’d make the Slavic Studies Department a daily destination. Though the décor was depressingly beige and the mustiness invading her chest smelled of dust. Maybe she could find a third floor somewhere prettier. This one was the same layout as the first floor. She stepped into the hallway of offices and came to a door where the lettering on the translucent window announced “Slavic Studies Department, Chairman, Prof. Gregor Stoyanovich.”
Opening the door, she saw a small, round-shouldered woman of indeterminate age toiling over a typewriter. Her brown hair stuck to her forehead, shiny with sweat, and Rebecca realized her own heat wasn’t solely a result of her exertion; it was stifling on this floor, with the sun beating on the roof inches above.
The woman looked up without interest, barely glancing from her work. Rebecca was in no mood to be ignored.
“I’m looking for a graduate student named Teodor.” She was about to explain she didn’t know his last name, when the woman pointed out the door.
“End of the hall.”
“Thank you,” Rebecca said, closing the door behind her.
She turned left and started down the hall. Before she could wonder which door it would be, she spotted the figure seated at the end of the hall. Literally. A small table holding a typewriter had been set up, partially blocking the stairs at that end of the building. A thin, blond young man with a very pointy nose sat stooped over the keys, typing with painstaking care. He didn’t look up as she approached.
“Are you Teodor?” she asked.
He looked up at her through metal-rimmed spectacles, his brow furrowed. He had stopped typing but his fingers stayed poised over the keys. “Yes?”
“Are you the student who did the typing for Michael Oginski?”
The question seemed to catch him by surprise and he moved his hands away from the typewriter, resting them on his thighs. “Yes?”
“I was a friend of his. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh.” He breathed out with relief. His colourless eyes darted to the open door she had passed. “I was shocked to hear,” he said so softly that she thought he must truly have been upset. His voice, however, remained quiet. “But my job with him was finished. I gave him the manuscript already.” Despite the low tone, there was a nasal quality to his voice that made it sound whiney.
“Do you remember how many pages you typed?”
“One hundred ninety-five. I charge by the page. Is there a problem?” He squinted at her behind the glasses.
“I’m just wondering if you kept a copy,” she said. “We can only find one hundred and forty pages of the manuscript.”
“I assure you I gave him one hundred and ninety-five pages,” he said with some force, his voice suddenly louder than before.
“I’m sure you did,” she said, wondering what he thought she was accusing him of. “I wasn’t implying that you didn’t. I only thought you might’ve made a copy.”
He frowned at her. “I only make copies if the person asks. It’s a headache with the carbons. People can photocopy if they want.”
There was an awkward moment.
“What did you think of his book?” she asked, to break the tension.
His eyes darted back to her face, examining it for motive. “Did he tell you to ask me that?”
“Who?”
“You know, just because I liked the book… I am a good student — a good researcher — and I resent him going behind my back and bringing in people to… to interrogate me!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He watched her a moment over his long nose. “I won’t give him any excuse. I worked hard to get where I am. My thesis is solid. He knows that. Tell him I’ll go above his head if he doesn’t accept it this time.” Patches of flush rose in his pale cheeks.
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She heard a shuffling behind her. The young man’s pale eyes suddenly widened. He shot up, the legs of his chair scraping backwards along the floor.
A bear of a man appeared in the doorway of the closest office. Full cheeks rose above a meticulously clipped moustache and beard. His thick brown hair sprang from his head in controlled waves.
“Teodor, have you finished the section I gave you?”
The student’s mouth fell open. “Professor Hauer, it is a complex issue. It will take me a few days to prepare…”
So this was the professor whose overblown letter lay in her handbag. He grimaced at Teodor, then gave her a squinty smile as if trying to place her. He was handsome in his tweed jacket, well scrubbed and fastidious. Somehow cool in all the heat.
“I apologize for taking up your student’s time,” she said. “I was a friend of Michael Oginski’s.”
“Terrible tragedy,” he said without missing a beat, as if he had been following their conversation from inside his office. “Always a tragedy when someone dies before their time. I, too, was a friend. Dr. Anton Hauer, Professor of Polish Studies. Please,” he pointed a hand toward the door, “won’t you come into my office.”
He shot Teodor a nasty parting look while graciously holding out his arm for her to enter. She was glad for the chance to escape those angry, pale eyes.
The small office was lit by a floor lamp whose bulb was hidden behind a gold-coloured fringed shade. A small window. A knotted wool rug in shades of gold and ivory covered the old linoleum floor. There was a European feel to the room. Professor Hauer closed the door that had previously stood open and pulled out a straight wooden chair for her, hovering until she was seated.
“Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“Thank you, no.” She was going to melt.
“Would you prefer something cold? A glass of water?”
“I’d love one.”
He stepped behind his desk to a small table where a drip coffeemaker stood beside a pitcher of water. He handed her a glass, then sat down at his desk. Books were stacked neatly in a case within arm’s length of his chair.
“You must excuse Teodor,” said Hauer. “He has trouble keeping up with the work and consequently he becomes easily upset. He tends to exaggerate things and sometimes I think, well…” He shook his head. “I think he imagines things.”
“He’s a very nervous young man,” she said.
“He has reason to be. His work is not up to standard. But let’s not waste our breath on him. You came about poor Count Oginski.” His dark eyes sparkled at her, took her in.
“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you two know each other?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows, scratched the back of his neck. “The Count came to me when he started writing his book. He was a very charming man and I was eager to help. I don’t think he understood how much work was involved. I sat with him so many times, telling him about the period, the people. I tried to help him as much as I could. He was a count, after all.” He gave her a crooked smile, his eyes still gleaming at her. “And in the end, the book was —” He shook his head portentously.
He paused and looked off to the side in a teasing way that annoyed her, since she knew he had every intention of explaining.
“Was what, Professor?” she asked, playing his game “The book was what?”
“It was a disaster.”
She was taken aback. “Why do you say that?”
He folded his clean pink hands on the desk; his eyes returned to her face. “He was not an academic. He had no academic training. Or credentials. And he tried to write a book that required rigorous scholarship, discipline. He was just not up to it.”
Behind him the soft light of the lamp suffused the ancient grey paint. He had tried to allay the shabbiness of the office but had only succeeded in calling attention to it. She wondered whether the university shared his own high opinion of his scholarship.
“I have to disagree,” she said, surprised at the anger building up in her. “I’ve read a few chapters and I’m sure he never meant it to be a scholarly work. I’m enjoying it immensely.”
“With all due respect, you are not working in the field, Miss —”
“Dr. Temple.”
He stopped short and took a better look. He had been talking at her before and now appeared to finally see her.
“You are at the university?”
“I’m a physician.”
He raised his dark eyebrows. “Well,” he said, smiling with tight lips, a puzzled respect. “Do not misunderstand. He was a great aristocrat. You could see it as soon as he walked into the room. Tall, distinguished. Very impressive. I’m sorry to say the book — the book is a fiction.”
“He told me he was going to reveal a secret about his family that would upset historians. Did he discuss that with you?”
He gave her a disdainful smile, cocking his great brown head on an angle. “A secret that would upset historians?” He arched an eyebrow. “I have to explain something to you, dear Doctor. History is the highest of disciplines. It requires many years of intensive study, research, erudition. It is not something that can be rattled off in one book by an amateur. As much as I admired the Count, his book is not history, so how can it upset historians? It is a novel. Good for the beach.”
“So you don’t know what he was referring to?”
“I helped him in the beginning. With the research, and so on. I haven’t had much contact with him recently.”
“So you wouldn’t know where the end of his manuscript is?”
He looked at her blankly.
“Teodor says he typed almost two hundred pages for Michael but we can only find a hundred and forty.”
“Ah. Teodor. With Teodor anything is possible. I’m sorry I can’t help you there.”
“You think he’s lying about having the manuscript?”
Hauer shrugged. “He’s a very odd fellow.” His brown eyes narrowed. “He has some… psychological problems. I should’ve trusted my instincts when I first met him. He told me about his family in Poland. Disturbed people. Apparently his father took his own life. I should’ve seen the signs. But he was on his best behaviour and he fooled me. He wanted to study Poland. How could I know? So I took him on. There are not so many students who want to study Poland.”
“But about the manuscript…”
“He is having trouble with his thesis. Maybe he plans to use the Count’s material in some way.”
“Wouldn’t you recognize that, since you’re familiar with both works? Wouldn’t he have to show the thesis to you as his supervisor?”
“Yes, of course, dear Doctor. But he is desperate.”
“Professor Hauer, I’m not convinced that Michael’s death was an accident.”
His eyebrows flew up. “You think Teodor —”
“I’m not accusing anyone.”
“What do the police say?”
“They’re doing an autopsy. I think they’re leaning toward the accident theory.”
“It said in the paper that he drowned. That friends found him in the pool.”
It was so hot in the building. How could he stand it, in his tweed jacket? “He’d invited all of us to his house that day.”
“You were there when it happened?”
She shook her head. “We arrived too late.”
“So you were the ones who found him.”
In her profession she was used to people’s morbid curiosity. It bothered her nonetheless.
“I understand there were friends from Poland?”
She nodded.
“He mentioned a compass that belonged to his family in Poland. That he would like to get his hands on it. I always doubted its existence.” He seemed to be waiting.
It was time to change the subject. She decided to take some liberties with the truth.
“He told me about the project you’re working on, setting up the Chair in Polish Studies.”
He bowed his head as if she had just mentioned the name of God. “It is my most fervent goal. I have directed all my energies toward it.” He looked off into the distance behind her. “It will transform Polish studies in this country.”
“And how will you do that?”
His eyes popped open. “Me? Dear Doctor! I am not lobbying for myself. The position of Chair is open to the best qualified candidate.”
“I just assumed…”
“No, no, no. Of course I would be deeply honoured if later I am chosen. But that will not be up to me ultimately. The Chair is bigger than any one person. And for now, I must see to the publishing of my book, a seminal history of Poland, in English.”
He reached over to the shelf and picked off a thick volume. He placed it on the desk in front of her triumphantly. The black dust jacket bore red and white lettering in Polish, which she couldn’t read. By Dr. Anton Hauer. She flipped through to be polite. Some very dated black and white photos of castles and battles flashed by. She turned it over. On the back, a small photo in the bottom corner of the dust jacket revealed a much younger Dr. Hauer, clean-shaven except for a thin moustache, brooding for the camera.
“In Polish universities,” he said, leaning forward, “this book is required reading.”
“I guess I’ll have to wait for the English version,” she said. “Have you translated it yourself?”
“Yes, yes, it’s all ready to go.”
“When is it coming out?”
His face clouded over, his body stiffened in the chair. “There’s a delay,” he said. “Publishers move so slowly. They don’t really understand my book. There’s a new editor and he simply misses the point. He thinks history should be dramatic and exciting — and it is, but not the way he thinks. You know, these young editors brought up on television. The facts aren’t always dramatic but they’re real and that’s history. For instance, the three partitions of Poland…”
She looked at her watch to signal the end of her visit. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I have to go.”
He watched her more intently. “Where are my manners? Another glass of water?”
She stood up. “Thank you, but I’m running behind. I have to get back to my office.”
He stood up. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Doctor. Perhaps you can come back for another visit.”
In two long strides he reached the door before she could open it. “Here’s my card. Do you have one?”
Without enthusiasm she reached into her purse for a card.
He leaned in front of her to turn the door knob. The aroma of balm on a thick head of hair.
In the hall she turned back to look at Teodor, see if there was anything in his face that would betray him. He in turn was watching Hauer, who blithely ignored him. The student’s face was disfigured with an unsettling mixture of fear and loathing.