He walked forward, although he was going nowhere.
Suddenly, he shuddered and stopped. He glanced around nervously, as if waking from a deep sleep. For a moment, he had no idea where he was, as happens immediately after waking. But he quickly recognized the empty surroundings.
Torn from the slumber of oblivion and numbness, he awoke to his worst nightmare.
The intoxicating scent of death emanating from the park woke him—a sinister aura, stronger than ever. It was this aura that repelled and drove anyone who paused even for a moment in this spot, on the edge of the park, to panic. It was this aura that drew Adam now to the Garden—further, deeper. Among those trees, he experienced perhaps the strongest emotion a human being can experience, in all its breadth—despair. The memories, though chaotic and torn by shock, terror, and sadness, blurred and smeared by tears, remained deeply etched in the delicate fabric of his young mind. They returned to him persistently in his dreams. In his waking state, Adam returned to them. He had come to confront his nightmares; to face them, not to succumb, and to depart victorious, though defeated.
He entered the Garden. He felt the ground slipping beneath his feet; slipping through the mud, through the swamp soaked in blood, the stench of which intoxicated and lulled him to sleep. But he moved forward, his expression set, passing the silent inhabitants of the park. He dug his fingers into the bark, scratched it, dragged his nails along it. He pounded his fists against their trunks. As if punishing them for not helping, for not saving her, for not defending him. He beat the trees for his helplessness until splinters flew, until blood ran down his clenched fists.
He stopped to massage his bloody hand. He licked his wounds.
Then, among the mossy trunks, he saw a black tree with red leaves that didn't fall even in winter.
How strange, he thought. Because although he remembered the Park—though he couldn't forget the tragedy that had unfolded there, couldn't erase the sight of Gosia's dead body, and even in his dreams saw the hated, idle trees—he didn't remember this one at all. It was as if it had hidden somewhere in the recesses of his mind, in some fold of his brain, never to emerge. It was as if it had vanished from his memories, wanting to avoid responsibility. Like a devil denying its existence—a devil who had messed something up. But what? Adam approached the black, loathsome tree and studied it, ruffling his brows. The stench of guilt, the stench of evil, the smell of death emanated from it—but the boy could find no evidence of sin, except a premonition; except the overwhelming awareness that the tree was the culprit. It stood, silent, black, dead. Its red leaves remained unmoved by the gusts of wind.
On the black, damp earth lay a single dry leaf.
This tree never shed its leaves. Not even in winter. Even the wind didn't blow them away.
I have them!
He suddenly remembered Gosia jumping around, trying to pick one of those leaves. How she'd told him to help her, and how she'd snapped at him when he refused.
And then—he found that leaf on her tongue; he pulled it out to save her, forcing his own air into her still lungs.
As he bent to take it in his hand, it browned, curled up, and crumbled at his touch.
Adam withdrew his hand, surprised.
Rising from his crouch, standing just beneath the tree, he lifted his head and looked at the branches hanging above, draped with crimson leaves.
He focused on the lowest of them: a leaf dangling from its tip—within his grasp.
He jumped—again, again—but his prey eluded his fingers. Again and again, he grasped only air, millimeters from his target. The leaf seemed beyond his reach; visible, so close, yet inaccessible.
Just like Gosia, he thought.
He leaped forward and grabbed the crimson leaf, nearly crushing it in his clenching fist.
He looked at it, lying flat in his palm. He wondered if it was that leaf—that leaf—that had killed Gosia. Or if she had died from putting it in her mouth.
He placed it on his tongue.
***
The pathologist ruled that death was instantaneous.
When the same police officers who had found Adam clutching the dead Gosia discovered his body in the Garden, they initially thought that a desperate man had gone to take his own life at the scene of the tragedy; that Romeo had wanted to die where Juliet had. However, the autopsy revealed no evidence of any attempt at suicide. If Adam had wanted to make a dramatic farewell, he would have hanged himself, a bluish ring adorning his neck. But nothing of the sort was found. No welts, scratches, wounds, or holes. Not a drop of blood. And not a gram of illegal substances in his veins. No traces of poison or sleeping pills were found in his stomach. Therefore, it was not suicide. No one killed him either. Dozens of witnesses were interviewed, from Adam and Gosia's family, through their mutual acquaintances, to people living near the Garden. No, no one saw anything. The boy was alone in the park. No, he didn't betray any intention of going there. No, no one blamed him for Gosia's death. No, no one harbored any resentment or hatred for him because of her death. He had saved her, hadn't he? He had administered artificial respiration and everything. He liked her, officer. Besides, it was impossible not to like him too – such a clumsy but likable boy.
Only that red leaf in his mouth surprised Dr. Sulik. He had it analyzed – even though it was just an ordinary leaf. Adam didn't choke on it – they would have found it deep in his throat, not in his mouth, if that had happened. The lab didn't send the doctor any revelations – just a red leaf. It didn't have any poisonous or narcotic properties that could have led to death. The leaf wasn't returned to Sulik either – it disintegrated immediately after the sample was taken.
The investigation was closed due to lack of a culprit. Adam simply died. Just like that.
The state and the office forgot about the case as soon as the files were closed. But the people didn't. To the police, Adam and Gosia were just names. To their families and friends, to their neighbors, they were an irreplaceable loss. Weeks passed, and they still puzzled over what had really happened. The explanation that two young people had simply died in the same place simply didn't resonate with them. They refused to hear that there was no medical basis for the mystery of their deaths. The Secret Garden, where both tragedies occurred, was shrouded in legend; when facts are lacking and the truth is unsatisfactory, one usually adds their two cents. Even at the end of the century, on the threshold of the new millennium, people invent and then believe their own fairy tales—about the black Volga, about the devil who asks the time, about the kidney thief.
The Garden of Death. That's what they called it. And they trembled at the very thought of it. They said that whoever entered it would die instantly.
***
Mr. Staszek walked along the uneven sidewalk at a snail's pace. Taking one step at a time, leaning on his cane, he advanced inch by inch. Every now and then he had to stop to rest. Then he continued, slowly accelerating to a speed of half a kilometer an hour.
The old man had been through two wars, long scars on his body, and never-healed wounds in his mind. There was no time for them to heal, because as soon as one torturer went to the sand, another mounted the hump grown by the vicious twists of fate, and so he rode it for the next forty years. Over the years, Mr. Staszek had lost his health, family, money, and little of his mind remained in his old age. His parents died, then his brothers, sisters; then his wife. He even outlived his own children—careerists, party animals, alcoholics; because it was unbecoming not to drink. What death didn't steal from him, the state snatched from him. If he had a penny, they'd rip him off with taxes. If he had anything valuable in his house, they'd break in—it didn't matter whether the owner was there or not—and take everything, some thief or another. And he didn't have the strength to stop them. And he was afraid they'd kill him. He feared for his poor health, as if it were worth anything. Maybe it had been once, but today... today it was worsening day by day. He couldn't eat what he wanted, because only water kept him from getting diarrhea or heartburn. He could barely walk on his emaciated legs. He could barely move because of calcified, twisted joints. Every hinge in his body was rusty and worn, and every door was ajar. He couldn't hold his urine. Sometimes he drooled.
Sometimes, in dreams, memories of his beautiful youth would come back, when Poland had been free for twenty years, and he was young, vigorous, and fit, free to do whatever he wanted: eat, drink, dance until dawn, and have any woman he wanted. Then, sadly, he'd wake up in his eighty-year-old body, in a small apartment in a gray housing estate, at the end of the century at the beginning of which he'd been born. Sometimes the sheets were wet, and the room stank of urine. Sometimes he could barely get out of bed. Sometimes he'd go half the day without breakfast because he didn't have the strength to get up. Once he was dressed, he'd go shopping, buying enough food for the week so he wouldn't have to go out several times a week. He'd stuff bread into the freezer so it would be fresh after a week. It was good that at least there was an elevator, because if he'd had to take the stairs, he'd probably have sat in an armchair and died, because he couldn't imagine going down the fourth floor, much less going back up.
He stopped for air, just at the edge of the Garden. For a moment, he paid it no attention at all. He stood, struggling with his body, with his own fading will to take another step. Then the park caught his gaze; his weak, mist-covered, visionless, nearsighted eyes. Mr. Staszek couldn't see clearly beyond two steps, but he stared intently at a point, squinting. He finally averted his gaze and looked down the street, along the uneven sidewalk stretching before him. "
Which protruding slab will I trip on?" he thought. When will my leg slip? When will I fall, and what will I break? And will it ever heal, or will I wear a cast and suffer until I die?"
He ruffled his brow. He took a deep breath and turned into the Garden. He entered the trees and pushed forward determinedly. His bones ached, his joints couldn't handle the constant movement—his long, determined strides—but he walked tirelessly, passing one dark tree trunk after another. He didn't stop to rest. He was out of breath, and his heart pounded in his emaciated chest, nearly breaking his ribs.
He stopped only at the sight of a black tree with red leaves.
"So it's you..." he muttered, ruffling his brows. "Hello again..."
He remembered that tree. It had sprung up, pitch black, with crimson buds, when he was in his thirties—right after the war. A local oddity that had always filled him with a strange fear. They said the crimson color was from blood, the blackness from rotting bones. They were afraid of that little tree. But then a park grew here; the trees obscured that nightmarish plant. No one came back after that, and over time, everyone forgot it was even there.
"Will you be the one to give me solace?" he asked.
As if in response, a crimson leaf fell onto his hand.
"Thank you..." he said, then popped it into his mouth
.
The body of an old man who had no family, kept in touch with no one, flitted through the city like a ghost of the past, invisible and unseen, never found.
Only a bailiff reported his disappearance, breaking down the door to his apartment, seeing a thick layer of dust on every inch of every surface and a dense web of spiderwebs. The small rooms reeked of musty, months-unaired rooms.
He carried out the television and refrigerator.Karolina returned from work tired but happy. The calculations gave her a headache—but she liked her job. The young banker quickly rose because she worked the way she lived—efficiently and orderly. At home, blouses were folded into cubes in the closet; at the bank, every penny counted, accounted for, and filed in the appropriate column. She was given several subordinates and a multitude of responsibilities—and that thrilled her. Her feet ached from her high heels, and her feet were raw, having worn new shoes for the first time today—yet she walked through town with a smile. She smiled at the thought of a hot bath and a foot massage. And Friday. Friday would be a wild one.
Passing the park, she first slowed, then stopped. A shiver ran through
her. After a moment's thought, she entered the Garden. She disappeared among the trees.
Tottering on brand new, shiny black heels, she walked through the park, the same smile on her face. A pretty one, arching her sensual, shapely lips into a bow. Perverse. Because Karolina had something in her eyes... something wicked, manic. That glint in her brown eyes—that's what a woman looks like when she's aroused. Except she looked like that all the time. In bed, as well as when eating and at work. Men on the street glanced at her, and co-workers couldn't look her straight in the eye. Forced to talk to her, they averted their gazes and blushed like embarrassed boys. Because she looked like she wanted to devour them. Like she wanted to have wild sex with anyone in sight. It happened too. There was a free moment, the office was empty, the boss wanted nothing—and then a handsome subordinate came along, and just like that, it happened. And that at any moment anyone could walk through an unlocked door—a cleaning lady, another subordinate, or even her boss? The prospect only turned her on more. Being caught, snitched on, fired—without that thrill of uncertainty, of potential danger, sex was just a mindless slapping of hips. The only threat was pregnancy—and not always even that. Only teetering on the edge, where she risked everything and where there were no easy solutions, truly excited her. Sex with anyone, anywhere. Or weekend races between rich bastards in expensive cars paid for by their dads. She liked sitting next to the driver, and when he faltered and took his foot off the gas, she would tighten her fingers on his thigh, urging him to hold on. Fired up by the shudder of the engine, by the rush, she fantasized about crashing. Going over 200 kilometers per hour in the city and hitting a pole or a house. Breaking. Dying. Nothing could compare to that.
When she couldn't go any further in her high heels, she took them off and continued barefoot, searching for the excitement she sensed, the one that drew her closer.
Finally, she spotted a black tree with crimson leaves. Her eyebrows rose at the sight of it. The red of its foliage excited her, inflamed her. She walked faster and faster, stumbling, occasionally pricking her foot by stepping on a sharp pebble—until finally she stood beneath the tree. She reached for the branches, yearning to grab a single leaf. But tall as she was—tall and devastatingly graceful—she couldn't reach a branch. She glanced at the black trunk. A moment later, she was scrambling up it. A young banker, her hair fancifully pinned back, no ostentatious makeup, and a gray knee-length skirt, was climbing the tree. She broke all her fingernails—but the pain didn't deter her; it only excited her more. She tore her tights completely, ripping the skin off her thighs and calves. Finally, she fell from a considerable height. She cut her face and bruised her buttocks.
A red leaf fell onto her stomach as she struggled to get up.
She placed it flat in her palm and stared at it. Her pupils dilated.
She knew that if she swallowed that leaf, she would die. She knew what they said about the park—that anyone who entered it would die. Now she knew the secret of the Garden. The Garden wasn't the one that killed. It was the scarlet leaf she held that caused sudden, painless death.
Trembling with excitement, she opened her mouth and placed the leaf on her tongue.
***
The young banker was found the following evening.
Her boss, not finding her in the office that morning, was surprised to say the least—Karolina was never late and never missed a day of work. When she didn't answer her cell phone, he kept calling her again. Voicemail didn't go off—Karolina was available at all hours of the day and night, and she didn't need message machines.
Someone had found her purse, abandoned on the sidewalk by the park. He took out his phone and answered the call.
"Ms. Karolina?" the boss asked.
"Excuse me, I found this phone in the street..." the finder replied. "I mean, it was ringing in my purse, and the purse was lying on the ground. "
"Where are you?
" "Near the Garden.
" "The Garden?
" "Yes.
" "Oh God..." the bank manager groaned. "Wait there, I'll call the police.
" "No way! I'm getting the hell out of here!"
The caller hung up, dropped his cell phone, and fled.
The police arrived twenty minutes later. They found the purse and the phone nearby.
"Let's go into the woods, gentlemen," Sergeant Miklas ordered.
"Jesus, not this," the young officer accompanying him groaned.
"What are you talking about, constable? Going into the bushes!
" "You think..."
"I don't think so, constable! I know!"
Just as he predicted, they found the girl dead where he expected her: by a tree. Dead, bloody, in torn clothes, barefoot.
"What does this look like to you, constable?
" "Ripped clothing, a torn dress, ripped tights, a cut cheek... Abrasions and lacerations on the inner thighs... Looks like violence to me, Sergeant...
" "You're on to something, constable," the senior officer nodded approvingly. "But what kind of pervert would torture a girl like that and then pull her panties back on?"
Although the situation looked less suspicious than strange, procedure is procedure, so an investigation into the murder and alleged rape was immediately launched. Police officers painstakingly gathered clues, interviewed, and questioned. Fingerprints were lifted from the deceased's skin—but that didn't make things as easy as expected. Dozens of prints were found on her. Different ones, as it later turned out. They came from a dozen or so men. When summoned for questioning, they didn't shy away from accusations of sexual contact with Karolina, didn't deny their acquaintance, and didn't hide their attraction to her—during her lifetime, of course. These men admitted to having sex with her openly, blushing like teenagers when asked about their first time. They weren't paralyzed by fear, ashamed, or shocked. They were... aroused.
But none of these horny yuppies raped her. For objective reasons.
Meanwhile, the once-voluptuous body of the deceased landed on Sulik's table. The doctor examined it—pale, bruised, scratched, covered in wounds and dirt—without much emotion. Without the arousal and overwhelming urge to copulate with her that every man in her path had experienced until yesterday. He could have examined the wounds, extracted black lumps from the scratches with tweezers to then submit them for chemical analysis, cut her open to check for possible damage to internal organs. But no. Sulik, guided by a strange premonition—which, in his profession, counted for less than solid knowledge—opened her mouth and opened her jaws.
He found a red leaf on his tongue.
***
Dr. Andrzej Sulik, a police pathologist, an excellent employee and a good friend, a highly educated and intelligent man, well-read, cultured, and athletic, a sensitive husband, a warm father, and a cool professional, an empiricist more than a Catholic, because he believed only in what he saw, not in what someone wrote two thousand years ago, was taken by ambulance—after being dressed in a straitjacket—to a room without doorknobs.
He went mad. He lost his mind, seeing for the second time on the deceased's tongue that red leaf, whose tissues produced no toxins; which were dead. He went mad because the deaths of three people could not be explained in any logical, scientific way. He found nothing—neither fatal injuries, nor diseases, nor poison in the blood—and the only thing that kept recurring was the crimson leaf, pressed stiffly against the roof of his mouth by his tongue. A withered leaf, without any harmful chemical or physical properties, was killing. And this was beyond his comprehension. It blew his mind. He burst into laughter. He howled and lay on the tiled floor when someone passing in the hallway heard him. He continued to cackle and choke wildly as they jammed him into the straitjacket, or as they dragged him to the ambulance.
The leaf crumbled to dust and blew away in the draft created by the door being opened repeatedly before anyone noticed it.
***
The police had cordoned off the garden. Yellow tape had been strung around the site of the inexplicable deaths. No one was even allowed to enter the park. Generally, people complied with these instructions – but there were a few curious ones who, despite the prohibitions, flocked like children to where they shouldn't be. Criminals were caught and chased out of the park. One was taken to the police station after insulting an officer and trying to beat him.
***
Mariola and Stefan Bogaczyk went for a short walk that cool autumn afternoon. They walked hand in hand, at a leisurely pace. They were in no hurry. They had enough of the hustle and bustle of the week. Work, money, taxes, bills, invoices, deadlines, phone calls, faxes, orders, confirmations… At least on Sunday, they wanted to have some peace and quiet; to enjoy themselves. Peacefully. They had been married twenty-four years; in a few months, they would celebrate a quarter-century together. They had two children, good jobs, and were earning more than a decent living. They had just bought a new car—for themselves, not for the company. They drove it to the movies on Saturday nights. They flew to Malaysia for vacations. They upgraded their cell phones to newer models every month. Each had their own laptop—there was just no time to play with them. In their free time, they preferred to go for walks.
"What are you thinking about?" Mariola was about to ask.
Then a red leaf fell right in front of them. A moment later, the wind brought another. And even though the park was a few dozen meters away, they could smell its repulsive, sepulchral scent, hitting them along with the gusts of cold air.
Mariola bent down to pick up the leaf. Stefan crouched and picked up the other.
Holding them in their hands, pressing their thumbs to keep them from escaping, husband and wife looked at each other. They gazed into each other's eyes for a long time.
Long and gloomily.
She always wanted to be a painter and marry a painter. Since childhood, he had dreamed of becoming a famous rally driver—not just locally, not just nationally. So that everyone in the world would know the name Bogaczyk.
Instead, they ran a wholesale business, their son was a spoiled junkie, and their daughter a spoiled tramp, obsessed with money and a lust for possessions.
In unison, they poured the red leaves into their mouths.
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