The Public Prosecutor (23 page)

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Authors: Jef Geeraerts

BOOK: The Public Prosecutor
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At the end of three days, the lack of food had left her in a permanent state of weakness. She had also been required to hand in her credit card to cover “costs”. She had left her passport in her room at the Casa Belgica on Via Omero, but someone from Opus Dei had collected it together with her luggage. Each evening, two bank transfer slips were left next to her bread and water, one for the daily “generosity” collection and one for the purchase of flowers. She refused one of her obligations without drawing attention to the fact: kissing the floor when she got up in the morning. She had been unable to overcome her obsessive hatred of dirty floors.
When the retreat finally came to an end at three in the afternoon on 31 May, Amandine felt as if she had just begun to recover from a bad flu, physically and mentally exhausted. To round off her visit, and much to her surprise, she was invited to have dinner with Pla y Daniel in one of the opulent salons of the House, the very place in which El Padre used to entertain select company in the past, what he called “the apostolate of the table”.
The table was adorned with antique linen, Sèvres porcelain on gilded plates, cutlery, crystal glasses and candles in a
golden
candelabra. She was well enough informed about Opus Dei to know that it was
solid
gold.
The courses were served by female Opus Dei candidates in simple attire, who brought each plate and nodded without a saying a word. The magnificent sideboards and leather-clad walls lacked any form of religious symbolism. A glass display cabinet, containing at least a hundred porcelain, bronze, wood, terracotta, papier-mâché and metal donkeys, decorated one of the corners. El Padre insisted it was his favourite animal, and liked to tell his guests that he was “the humble donkey of Christ”.
The many courses were accompanied by the most exquisite wines, at which Amandine guardedly sipped. She politely refused a serving of risotto with white truffles. Pla y Daniel ate and drank to his heart’s content, summoned the waitresses with a table bell, dismissed them with a wave of the hand and launched into a series of Vatican jokes about the Pope and the curial cardinals. Puffing at a quality Havana cigar over coffee, he finally returned to the point; his expression turned cold and vacant, and he issued strict orders for 2 June, when she was to attend a meeting with a “notary of our choosing” in the company of a Belgian numerary. Pla y Daniel rounded the evening off by handing her an envelope containing a bill for the retreat, her credit card, her passport and her airline tickets.
 
Paul Hersch’s approach to Didier Savelkoul differed considerably to the treatment the young man’s mother had received in Rome. Hersch was beside himself with rage at having walked into Hervé van Reyn’s trap and fallen for his intimidation technique. He was now being obliged to do something he detested - complete an assignment for which he was not trained, an assignment that would backfire on him if it were to fail. The stench of double standards was enough to make even Machiavelli proud, but he didn’t give a damn.
He was tense and restless, like an imprisoned rat searching for an escape route. His paranoid mind saw only one solution:
someone else
had to pay the price. And was there anyone more appropriate for the job than Didier Savelkoul, the incarnation of moral masochism? He decided to give him his “preferential treatment”, which he used on occasion to break rebellious candidates: he ignored him completely. When they crossed each other’s path somewhere in the building, he would turn his head and enjoy the thought of Savelkoul’s wincing face, like a terrified child looking up from a deep well. He usually invited him to visit his office once a day to discuss matters of concern and hear him out on his fellow students. He was well aware that these meetings were important to Savelkoul, providing him an opportunity to recharge the batteries of his identity. But Hersch’s house line had been blocked for three days in a row. His office, where he spent up to fourteen hours a day studying new “psychological formation techniques”, and where he was now taking his meals, remained unaired.
He would sit for hours ruminating and fretting, like a sitting giant with the brachycephalic head of a Saxon farmer, brooding on the best way to satisfy his lust for revenge.
He finally made his move at midnight on 29 May. With the softest of voices, he appointed Savelkoul superintendant in charge of buildings, knowing full well that his assistant hated practical matters of this kind.
His behaviour during the weekly jog was equally bizarre: he encouraged the stragglers to keep up with vulgar and foul language. All this had to do with an increasing self-hatred brought on by his inability to square up to van Reyn. The stuck-up petty aristocrat with his toffee-nosed lingo would probably have been obliged to accept his response. His usual psychological defence mechanisms had failed him one after the other. For the first time in his life he had taken sleeping pills for three nights in a row.
 
Baron Hervé van Reyn was in the best of form. He had spoken with notary Vroman and prospects were excellent. They had examined the notarial deed of purchase together and formulated a proposal to be presented to Amandine de Vreux. The properties were not to be
donated
to Opus Dei, for the simple reason that the Institute would thus be faced with a bill from the Belgian state for up to eighty per cent of the value of the gift (68,800,000 Belgian francs) in registration fees. Rather, Amandine de Vreux was to sell the properties to an anonymous company by the name of Rumpus, one of Opus Dei’s numerous fiscal and legal fronts. Van Reyn was to hand her the sale price in cash (in an attaché case), and she was to sign for receipt in the presence of the notary. Once they had left the scene of purchase Amandine was to return the attaché case to van Reyn. The money itself came from Atlantis, a non-profit organization used by Belgium’s Opus Dei to launder its undeclared income. A reduced registration fee of 12.5 per cent (8,600,000 Belgian francs) was considered a reasonable price to pay.
A notarial donation had thus been transformed by fraudulent means into an act of sale, with the sole purpose of avoiding payment of eighty per cent registration fee to the Belgian state. Baroness Amandine de Vreux was not informed that her heirs (her two sons), both partially disinherited by this fraudulent procedure, would have to face much more serious difficulties after her death. The Belgian tax authorities would then present them with a substantial bill (art. 108 of the Belgian fiscal code on inheritance rights) for the enormous revenue acquired from the property sale (of which their mother had not received a single cent). Opus Dei was completely indifferent to the fact that both Savelkoul sons would be considerably disadvantaged by their actions (Geoffroy wasn’t even a member). Pla y Daniel, who had studied law in Spain, spoke with Hervé van Reyn on the telephone about the question. Wasn’t Opus Dei acting in total contradiction to the principles of Belgian civil law? Monseigneur van Reyn had replied with a snigger that the boys would be ill-advised to challenge Opus Dei on the matter without the help of a very good lawyer. He was simply too euphoric to worry about it. Everything appeared to have gone according to plan. Developments in that unsavoury affair with the whore also appeared to be moving in the right direction. Strangely enough, it had become a point of honour for van Reyn that the two sons be granted an aristocratic title. After all, Belgium’s Opus Dei would then be a baron richer. Before contacting the royal court, however, he had to wait for the result of Paul Hersch’s operation, which was set to begin on 2 June. It was all very strange. The only person to remain completely free of guilt up to that point was the man himself, the guilty party. Van Reyn had sworn to bring him to his knees. He considered the five million francs stashed away in the Swiss bank account a mere bagatelle, which Opus Dei fully deserved.
 
On Monday 31 May, the date of the second fortnightly meeting of Antwerp’s Rotary Club, Albert appeared an hour later than was his custom. The Rotarians were settling down to their main course and the atmosphere was the same as always, a little like a London gentlemen’s club: the executive members wore ribbons of honour round their necks to signify their function, and the entire company was dressed as one would expect of such a gathering. The conversation was animated and the wine abundant. Albert’s chair, between Walter de Ceuleneer and Georges Weyler, was empty. He took his place, emptied a glass of water in one gulp and asked for a refill.
“Alberto, how are you?…” enquired Weyler with a roguish wink.
“Jokke, prostate is all in the mind,” Albert answered with a hoarse voice and pointed to his forehead.
“You look the worse for wear, if you don’t mind me saying,” Weyler continued.
Walter de Ceuleneer took over: “You look like a dog after a night’s scavenging, man,” he said and burst out laughing.
Albert did not react. His main course was served - traditional guinea fowl with peas and mashed potatoes. He started to eat with little enthusiasm and said nothing. He sipped at the wine. Mediocre. Baroness Amandine was expected home the next day. No more hours of contentment in the company of Maria Landowska, who would have to appear once again in her prim black dress, white collar and starched cuffs and say “yes ma’am, no ma’am”. The most important thing was that he keep their sexual relationship a secret. Amandine had a special nose for such things. Hypocrite that she was, she would keep it to herself and then strike at an unexpected moment, like a spider attacking a fly caught in its web. He knew precisely how it would happen. He would arrive home one fine day to find that Maria Landowska had been summoned urgently to Poland for the funeral of a family member. The Canon of Antwerp’s cathedral chapter would take care of a replacement. The pisssmelling old bugger had a set up a profitable business with some or other Polish bishop providing irreproachable young Polish servant girls for irreproachable Catholic Belgian families. The very thought of it sickened him. After no more than fifteen minutes he was bored to death. When dessert appeared on the table, he looked at his watch and said: “Sorry, gents, time for me to go.”
“Aha, Alberto has a date,” said Georges Weyler.
“Of course I have a date,” he replied calmly. “Why else would I have to leave?”
“By the way, man,” said de Ceuleneer, placing a confidential arm around Albert’s shoulder. “We’re off stalking in Scotland again next week,” he said, unashamed of his Antwerp brogue. “Stag. Fancy joining us? Bring young Louise along. The horses are standing by and Patricia’s looking forward to a visit from her Scottish Sister, hahaha.”
“Sounds good,” said Albert expressionlessly. “Give me a buzz when you know the exact dates?”
“Righto. Enjoy yourself, eh?”
Albert stood, waved to his fellow diners and they waved back.
After he had left, de Ceuleneer asked Weyler if something was wrong. “He looks
terrible
.”
“Problems downstairs.”
“And him with a young filly to entertain… That’s a problem all right.”
“We’re all in the same boat, Walter. It’s just a matter of time.”
Walter de Ceuleneer, who hadn’t really understood what Weyler had said, peered at him wryly and tossed back the remainder of his wine.
 
Albert turned the front-door key, pushed it open and was embraced there and then by a pair of muscular arms.
“Oh Maria,
moja kochanie
,” he whispered in the warmth of her ear. Lips met lips, teeth, a warm tongue… Two hands deftly loosened his tie and she threw her legs in the air like a dancer, gripping his waist with her knees. They staggered up the stairs of the vestibule and he grabbed her ponytail, pulling it until she groaned.
“Mr Albert, oh Mr Albert, I’m soooo
bosko
,” she said in a mixture of Polish, Flemish and German, her vivid boyish voice turning suddenly hoarse. She rested her head on his shoulder and started to cry.
“Maria, don’t cry,” he said. He put her down on the marble floor, kicked open the door with its ground-glass windows and embraced her. His hand disappeared under her skirt, pulling her panties aside and penetrating her warm, damp and slippery pussy with his middle finger.
She buckled in his arms and held her breath. He kissed her naked arms and gave her goosebumps. Her skin was covered in fine blond hair and there was a vague scent of perfume. He bored his nose into her armpit and bit at the fur. He recognized Davidoff, his own deodorant. When his finger found its way to her clitoris, her lips tightened and she pushed back her buttocks until he had slipped out. She took his head in both hands and said: “I’ve made dinner.”
“First champagne?” he asked, eye to eye, his nose rubbing gently back and forth against hers.
“I’d rather have
wódka
.”
“
Wódka
it is.”
He chuckled, happy, reckless, young, anticipating what they would do together in the hours that followed, without a thought for the next day, when the arrival of the lady of the house would plunge him into the same bloody grind he would have to endure until the end of his days. He could barely stomach the idea.
The table in the kitchen was set for a feast, with a white embroidered tablecloth, porcelain, crystal, silverware, candles and napkins.
She gazed at him wide-eyed, pressed herself against him and asked if he was
zadowolony
.

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