Marty kicked a smashed bottle out of the way, and pushed the door shut. It was bizarre to be closing the door on murder simply to listen to a story. But this tale had waited so long to be told; it could be delayed no longer.
“When were you born, Marty?”
“In 1948. December.”
“The war was over.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know what you missed.
It was an odd beginning for a confession.
“Such times.”
“You had a good war?”
Whitehead reached for one of the less damaged chairs and righted it; then he sat down. For several seconds he didn’t say anything.
“I was a thief, Marty,” he said at last. “Well . . . black marketeer has a more impressive ring, I suppose, but it amounts to the same thing. I was able to speak three or four languages adequately, and I was always quick-witted. Things fell my way very easily.”
“You were lucky.”
“Luck had no bearing on it. Luck’s out for people with no control. I had control; though I didn’t know it at the time. I made my own luck, if you like.” He paused. “You must understand, war isn’t like you see in the cinema; or at least my war wasn’t. Europe was falling apart. Everything was in flux. Borders were changing, people were being shipped into oblivion: the world was up for grabs.” He shook his head. “You can’t conceive of it. You’ve always lived in a period of relative stability. But war changes the rules you live by. Suddenly it’s good to hate, it’s good to applaud destruction. People are allowed to show their true selves-”
Marty wondered where this introduction was taking them, but Whitehead was just getting into the rhythm of his telling. This was no time to divert him.
“-and when there’s so much uncertainty all around, the man who can shape his own destiny can be king of the world. Forgive the hyperbole, but it’s how I felt. King of the World. I was clever, you see. Not educated, that came later, but clever. Streetwise, you’d call it now. And I was determined to make the most of this wonderful war God had sent me. I spent two or three months in Paris, just before the Occupation, then got out while the going was good. Later on, I went south. Enjoyed Italy; the Mediterranean. I wanted for nothing. The worse the war became the better it was for me. Other people’s desperation made me into a rich man.
“Of course I frittered the money away. Never really held onto my earnings for more than a few months. When I think of the paintings I had through my hands, the objets d’art, the sheer loot. Not that I knew that when I pissed in the bucket I splashed a Raphael. I bought and sold these things by the jeepload.”
“Towards the end of the European war I took off north, into Poland. The Germans were in a bad way: they knew the game was coming to an end, and I thought I could strike a few deals. Eventually-it was an error really-I wound up in Warsaw. There was practically nothing left by the time I got there. What the Russians hadn’t flattened, the Nazis had. It was one wasteland from end to end.” He sighed, and pulled a face, making an effort to find the words. “You can’t imagine it,” he said. “This had been a great city. But now? How can I make you understand? You have to see through my eyes, or none of this makes sense.”
“I’m trying,” Marty said.
“You live in yourself,” Whitehead went on. “As I live in myself. We have very strong ideas of what we are. That’s why we value ourselves; by what’s unique in us. Do you follow what I’m saying?”
Marty was too involved to lie. He shook his head.
“No; not really.”
“The isness of things: that’s my point. The fact that everything of any value in the world is very specifically itself. We celebrate the individuality of appearance, of being, and I suppose we assume that some part of that individuality goes on forever, if only in the memories of the people who experienced it. That’s why I valued Evangeline’s collection, because I delight in the special thing. The vase that was unlike any other, the carpet woven with special artistry.”