THE ETHICS OF IMMORTALITY

CHAPTER 19: WARSAW

Year 1934

Viktor age 20

Morgana age 10

It was a beautiful day in Warsaw on Obozna Street, one of those rare blue skies that brought people out on parade in the park between classes at the university for an extended stroll on the thoroughfare only blocks from the Wisla.

With a paper in hand, Mike approached the shoeshiner’s stand that looked across the park. The shoeshine man smiled a big yellow-toothed grin in greeting and gestured to the open seat. Mike climbed up and opened the newspaper to make it look as if he were reading. In truth, his focus was on the café across the street. His eyes darted above the headlines to watch each pedestrian pass by the table where Viktor, Morgana, and their new Polish companion, Autor Widmor, sat.

The man at his feet said something in the native tongue that sounded like a question.

“You speak English?” Mike asked.

The man smiled and tilted his head—the expression of an innocent and confused puppy.

“I said, do you speak English?” Mike repeated.

Again, the man looked confused, shook his head in the negative, and then pulled out his stool.

“You don’t, not a word. I could say anything and you would have no idea what it was.”

The man set the stool in front of the foot harness on the stand, looked at Mike’s shoes, and selected a polish to match the black leather. With the tin of polish in hand, he looked at the state of Mike’s shoes and muttered something in Polish. The man unlaced the shoes with care and precision. Setting aside the worn threads, he found a new pair that matched the length and color and set them to the side. The lid of the polish made a pop when it came off. The tin open, he lit a match, held it to the black polish, let it burn for a little while, and then snapped the tin cover back on. He took a rag, dug into the newly softened texture, and began to work it into the leather.

Mike’s attention remained on the three in deep discussion. “We’ve been in Europe for three months, and they make friends with this gypsy at the university. Each day, I walk them here, they talk for hours, Mr. Erikson gets drunk, and then I walk them to supper.”

A brush came out from the man’s kit and started to work away the dirt and grime on the heel of the one shoe before starting to work over the deep black polish with the rag. He looked up to Mike and smiled as if he understood what Mike was saying.

“I have been with them fifteen years. I watched them grow from kids—hell, I watched her turn into one. But you wouldn’t understand that. What a crazy night.” Mike shook his head in the disbelief he still carried to this day. “There we were in Times Square, most public place in the world. It was a beautiful night, not a care in the world, and Mrs. Erikson got stabbed.” Mike looked down at his paper to see the shapes of the letters and the pictures they supported. “Turns out they knew the Eriksons. They had known them years earlier. Had a score to settle with Mrs. Erikson. She got stabbed, and we threw her in the Oldsmobile, rushing her to the hospital Mr. Erikson started upstate. Longest car ride I ever had, driving through all those winding back roads as fast as I could, nearly back to their house. She was white when we got her in the room; there was little the doc could do. So Mr. Erikson pulls out this little thing of water and makes her drink it. Man oh man, if you knew, you still wouldn’t believe me.” Mike looked down to the tradesman busy at his craft.

A smaller brush had been removed from the box. The shoeshine man began to work the polish in a small circular motion into the black leather shoes. It gave a rough dullness to what once held a luster.

“What those two did to Mrs. Erikson made me so mad.” Mike’s lips pursed with a lasting memory of anger. “Mr. Erikson trusted me with the secret they had, told me about what had happened in Yellowstone, how they were trying to protect that secret. Those two, Alaric Bichel and Elsie Smith, had once been trusted, part of the inner circle, and were given this second chance at life. Instead, they wasted it on this act of revenge on Mrs. Erikson.”

Mike’s view from the perch of the shoeshine stand looked over Kazimierzowski Park, a green stretch between Kazimierzowski Palace and Warsaw University. Like in many parks, there were readers lounging under that rare blue sky. It was a beautiful day to sit and watch or let one’s mind escape in study and understanding. From here, he could also see that Mr. Erikson was on his third drink of the day, his hands moving about, deep in storytelling to the young author. Mrs. Erikson, so young, so beautiful, watched him talk. Once in a while, she would stop him to provide more details. The same thing had been playing out for weeks. They would talk, and the author would listen and write.

Mike was ready to leave Warsaw. As nice as it was, as friendly as the people were, as beautiful it was to walk the streets with the Eriksons, there was something that didn’t sit right. There was so much passion and strong belief that it was unsettling. Some people couldn’t sit with other people; Mike didn’t understand that. He saw one man throw a rock at a woman in the street and yell at her. There was nothing he could do but protect the Eriksons and move them inside to safety. It wasn’t pervasive. It seemed to be a series of small, odd incidents that were growing in number.

“I’ve never understood radicals,” Mike said out loud to the guy who didn’t understand. “Those two who went after the Eriksons, Bichel and Smith, they were radicals. They had a fire burning to find and hurt Mrs. Erikson. And they did just what they set out to do. But they got the message, I made sure of that. It took a while for me to find them, but when I did, I made sure they would never come after the Eriksons again.”

He removed the watch from his jacket pocket and opened the timepiece to mark the time in the midafternoon. Inside the watch was a picture of the raven-haired Morgana at the age of thirty, an older version of herself that had passed and was still yet to come. She had given him this photo in confidence only days before the attack in Times Square. She had been so kind and so affectionate in a way no other woman had been to him before.

Mike could feel the man now working the next shoe with the black polish. “They thought she was dead, but she wasn’t,” Mike continued. “She had a new life after the attack. I made certain they didn’t get that chance. These two had already had a second chance at life and would not see a third. And when I found them, when I tied them up, all they could talk about was this man named Thatch and how he had died because of the Eriksons. How they’d had this horrible life, been treated so badly, beaten, outcast, and shunned, so all they could do was think about the revenge they would take on the Eriksons. All the work they’d done, money they’d saved, and moves they’d made for years had all centered around the lives of the Eriksons. They were obsessed,” he said.

Measured tones of the clock tower struck the bottom half of the hour, confirming Mike’s pocket watch. He noticed a few heads in the park pop up from the books in hand and look to the tower.

 “My Lord, why would you go after the Eriksons? They are patrons of the arts, philanthropists, investors, and builders of hospitals. If they were not so private, you know, having this secret, you would rank their name up there with Andrew Carnegie, J. D. Rockefeller.”

The man stopped and looked up as if to understand one of the names. In broken English, he said, “J. D. Rockefeller?”

“Yes, exactly, my point. Thank you,” Mike replied.

The man returned to his work by starting the process of buffing. That included sprinkling a little water on the leather, rubbing it with a special cloth, spitting on it, and rubbing some more.

“They can’t hurt them now. They can’t reach from beyond that watery grave to get the Eriksons now. I have to keep an eye on them, you understand. I have to watch and look over them—that is my job. I have to protect them from these other radicals who want something from them that isn’t theirs to take. Its why I told them we should come to Europe, get a change of scenery.”

New laces were fitted into the eyeholes with the speed and precision of years of practice and repetition. After a rigorous amount of buffing from the man at his feet, Mike inspected the work and smiled. “Good work, my friend. I will return next week if we are still in the city.” Mike paid the man and stepped down from the elevated stoop. The paper folded quickly in his hand as he walked the half block to the café where the Eriksons sat. The waiter recognized Mike and showed him to the table he always sat in next to the three he watched over.

Morgana gave a warm smile to Mike when their eyes met. He took the chair that gave him the view of the Eriksons and Mr. Widmor. He could see anyone who approached them from the park, on the street, or on the walkway out front.

Viktor, with his back to Mike’s entrance, hands involved in the emphasis of the storytelling, was explaining how he had been running from natives in a jungle with a baby tied to his back while dragging Morgana with one hand and a bag of jewels and treasure in the other.

***

After another hour of storytelling had passed, Mr. Erikson called out, “Old man? Where are you, old man?”

Mike looked up and said, “Behind you, sir.”

“There you are, old man.” Viktor turned to see Mike at his table, crossed legged, paper in hand, looking out across the park. “Where are we going for dinner tonight?”

“I have a nice spot picked out for you,” Mike said.

“He won’t say. You won’t say out loud, will you, Mike?”

“No, sir.”

“Old man is looking out for us, wants to keep us safe,” Viktor explained. “You will join us, won’t you, Autor? Let us take you to dinner?”

“Yes, thank you. You know I cannot stay out late,” Autor said. His English was superb for a third language. “I need to take my notes and write them down. Mornings are my time to write.”

“Good, good. There are going to be four of us again, old man,” Viktor said to Mike.

“Yes, sir, already taken care of.”

The young face of Morgana looked across the table to Viktor with irritation.

“What?” Viktor said.

“I don’t like it when you insist on calling him ‘old man.’ He is not that old,” Morgana said.

“Mike, how old are you?” Viktor asked.

“Thirty-nine, Mr. Erikson.”

“See?” Morgana said.

“Well, that is older than you and me combined,” Viktor said.

“You know that’s only appearances,” she said.

“Mike, what do you think?” Viktor asked.

“I am here for your safety and protection, sir, that is all,” Mike said, as if he had repeated it many times before.

“Mr. Erikson?” Autor said. “Mr. Erikson, do you think I might be able to receive my remuneration for this week before dinner?”

Viktor looked to Autor with the glazed and foggy eyes of a harsh afternoon of drinking. He didn’t seem to understand the request.

“Viktor, he would like to get paid,” Morgana finally said.

“Money?” he slurred.

“Mike, maybe we should help Viktor freshen up before dinner,” Morgana said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mike said. He stood and moved over to Mr. Erikson to help. Before lending a hand to Mr. Erikson, Mike removed an envelope imprinted with the address of the hotel at which they were staying. Inside it was the weekly stipend that had been agreed on between Morgana and Autor. “Let me help you, Mr. Erikson,” Mike said.

“Old man, what would I do without you?” Viktor stumbled to his feet. “Morgana, my dear, would you do the pleasure of accompanying me?”

“Of course, my love,” Morgana said.

“Mr. Widmor, Mike will send the car for you later?” Viktor asked.

“I will send the car for you before dinner, Mr. Widmor,” Mike confirmed.

“Very good.” Viktor took a deep breath and steadied himself with a touch of his fingertips to the table. “All is well. Let us retreat to the hotel and gather ourselves,” he said, leading the way out of the café’s seating.

***

“You should understand this, my dear Autor: this is the closest in age that Viktor and I have been since we first met. There have been so many years when the displacement of our interests was so misaligned that we sought the comfort needed in others,” Morgana explained.

“We?” Viktor huffed.

“Please, Viktor,” she said.

“My heart has remained true,” he said.

“You have, my dear Viktor, and I owe you so much gratitude for this,” she said.

Viktor had less energy. It may have been the sun, the late night, or the mostly drinking away the afternoon that had done it. With some food in him and the soft warm atmosphere of the restaurant, he had been quiet most of the evening. There was a gruff soberness that sat on him like a weight. It allowed Morgana to be the hostess and entertain the narrative to Mr. Widmor.

“There were so many times I needed that strong Swede, but he was just an infant or a child. There have been times when the want was there, but the way in which to fulfill it was not. These are the times of compromise and regret that I have to confess to you, dear Autor. Viktor has been good and honest and true. He has been a compass in times when I have been lost, the North Star to guide my darkest nights. And while I have strayed from a path that has challenged the very core of our commitment to one another, he has trusted me to return.”

“Yours is truly a unique and rare story of love,” Autor said.

Morgana’s hand found its way across the table and took Viktor’s. It was not the rough hand from his sailing adventures or the crawling creature of the jungle night when they first kissed. It was the steady hand that caught her each time she fell. It was the strong hand that held her tight in moments of fear and sadness. His hand would hold fixed on the reigns when life seemed to buck and run wild. “For all that has happened, all we have been through, Viktor, you must know I still love you. I will always love you,” she said.

In that moment, the haze of drink cleared from his thoughts and that smile which beamed on the boat many lifetimes ago returned to his face. He said, “I love you, Morgana. I cannot begin to tell you just how much.”

The following letter was found folded and inserted into the binding of an original printing of the 1935 leather-bound edition of The Ethics of Immortality by Autor Widmor in the historic Hotel Bristol during renovations in 2023. The one-of-a-kind book was printed on a small vanity press in pre-war Warsaw and kept in pristine condition among other local works hidden in plain sight and out of reach for many years on the top shelf of the concierge’s desk as decoration. The entire collection of books sold at auction to a private collector for the price of ‎€1.2 million.

Little is known about the author Autor Widmor. Born in 1917 in Lublin, Poland, he later moved to Warsaw to continue his education. He was a student of literature at the University of Warsaw after a free Poland was established. Polish his native language, he became fluent in both English and Swedish. It is believed that Autor Widmor died in September 1939 during a period of total war in an attempt to save the lives of civilians from being trampled on a road while exiting Warsaw during the invasion of occupation forces.

Origional 23 September, 1934 letter written by Author Widmor to Viktor Erikson

ENGLISH TRANSLATION OF LETTER

September 23, 1934

Dear Mr. Viktor Erikson,

I am writing to inform you that I believe your life may be in danger. When you and your wife, Morgana, first approached me in the spring of this year to commission my talents as a ghostwriter for your story, I did so with a great need for financial stability. My education has become rather expensive this year, and many of my peers have left university, unable to afford tuition. Over the weeks of listening to your tale, I believed it was one of fiction. However, by autumn, I questioned if the accounts you told were, in fact, true.

During our sessions, I was able to capture the details described. You should be aware that after our sessions in the café where we met regularly, Morgana would come to me after each session and before each dinner to guide my writing. After the focused efforts of her influence, many of the stories captured seemed to shift in her favor considerably. Some of the details of her infidelities were later omitted. The number of times she “tested” the waters and its impact significantly reduced. A tale of your use of the “water” on the entire crew of the Mary Celeste was later added during revision.

When these changes were made, I thought little of the impact as I was under the belief that this work would be entirely fictional. However, as the story came into its final form by the fall, Morgana, along with the personal guard you referred to as “old man,” came to visit me for a final approval before delivery to the printers. With the final authorization and a significant unexpected payment, which I took to understand was in exchange for my silence in the matter, I witnessed the two in an intimate encounter outside of my apartment. It was my impression that the two were colluding against your best interests for their own financial gains.

Mr. Erikson, I implore you to use caution in any future dealings with your wife and your personal guard. If the wealth discussed during our sessions is near the totals you described, I fear that these two may be in pursuit of ownership by any means.

Your humble and loyal servant,

Autor Widmor