No other reason at all.
The cinema was called Rymont, and the mere existence of such an establishment in Sorbinowo was just as surprising as the films it was showing. Evidently something called a ‘Quality Film Festival’ was on offer during the summer, and when he discovered that a showing of the Taviani brothers’ Kaos was due to start in about two minutes, there was not a lot of time to hesitate.
He entered the auditorium just as the lights were being dimmed, but that gave him ample time to greet the rest of the evening’s audience. It comprised five people comfortably spread over the back few rows: four gentlemen and a lady – all of them past the first flush of youth, but with the kind of features characteristic of genuine cinema enthusiasts, Van Veeteren was pleased to note.
With a satisfied sigh he slumped down a few rows further forward – his satisfaction being intensified when it transpired that there would be no advertisements, and that the main film would begin at the exact time stated on the billboards.
So there is still a grain of quality left in this world of ours, he thought. Even a blind chicken can sometimes discover that fact occasionally.
Afterwards none of the audience was in much of a hurry to leave the premises. Two of the gentlemen launched into an animated discussion of the film. Comparisons were suggested with Pirandello’s texts and with other films by the Italian brothers, and it was clear to Van Veeteren that this was no ordinary group of people he’d found himself a part of. When he eventually stood up, another member of the audience came up to greet him – a short grey-haired gentleman exuding an aura of energy.
‘A new face! It’s a pleasure to welcome you!’
He held out his hand, and Van Veeteren shook it.
‘Przebuda. Andrej Przebuda. Chairman of the Sorbinowo Film Society.’
Van Veeteren. I just happen to be passing through…’
He searched his memory.
‘Life is a series of coincidences.’
‘Yes indeed,’ said the chief inspector. Very true. Hmm… I’m delighted to see that the cinematographic arts are still alive and kicking even outside the metropolitan centres.’
‘Well,’ said Przebuda, ‘we do our best – but as you can see, there aren’t all that many of us.’
He gestured towards the others.
‘And we’re not exactly spring chickens either.’
He smiled broadly and ran his hand apologetically over his almost bald head.
‘Andrej Przebuda?’ said the chief inspector – the penny had dropped at last.
‘Yes.’
‘I think we have a mutual friend.’
‘You don’t say? Who?’
‘W.F. Mahler.’
‘The poet?’
Van Veeteren nodded.
‘He claimed that you appreciated his poems.’
Przebuda burst out laughing and nodded enthusiastically. He was certainly closer to seventy than anything else, Van Veeteren thought. But the intensity in those eyes of his suggested the timeless twenties; and when the chief inspector looked more closely it seemed to him that the man’s face was distinctly Jewish. He realized – or suspected at least – that he was talking to one of those rare people who had been ennobled by suffering. Who had passed through fire and brimstone and been hardened rather than cracked.
But that was only a guess, of course. One of those sudden surges of speculation that demanded to be considered, and he was old enough to do so.
‘A damned fine poet, that Mahler,’ said Przebuda. ‘Fastidious, and as clear as a mountain tarn. I think I’ve reviewed every collection he’s published, right from the start. But how…’
It was another ten minutes before Van Veeteren was able to leave the Rymont cinema, armed with an insistent invitation from Andrej Przebuda to meet again and get to know each other better in the very near future – either in the editorial offices of his magazine, or at his home, which was nearby.
If the fact of the matter was that the chief inspector had come to Sorbinowo on official business, rather than as a tourist, then it could well be – not to overstate the matter – that he, Andrej Przebuda, might well be able to supply appropriate information.
If that should prove to be necessary. He’d been living here for forty-four years, after all.
If nothing else, perhaps they could exchange a few words about films and poetry.
Why not? Van Veeteren thought, having eventually taken leave of Przebuda and the other members of the Sorbinowo Film Society. It could be rewarding, from various points of view.
On the whole, not a wasted evening by any means, he decided as he made his way back to Grimm’s. But even so, once he had gone to bed what dominated his consciousness were the images from the morning. They kept him awake until the small hours.
Those young, naked little girls.
Those pale women.
The prophet’s beard.
10
The information about Oscar Yellinek and his spiritual activities had arrived on the Sunday morning. Both from Munster and from Stamberg. After a substantial breakfast in his room with two daily newspapers, Van Veeteren devoted an hour of the morning to sitting at Sorbinowo’s police station and going through the material.
And wondering what to do next.
Always assuming there ought to be anything to do next. Kluuge had been sent home to look after his pregnant wife, who had evidently been unwell during the night. The chief inspector was sweating. The sun had turned a corner, and was now slowly warming up Chief of Police Malijsen’s office to a state that would soon be just as unbearable as a fried apricot. There was no way of preventing that, despite all the blinds and curtains.
To what extent the Pure Life was an even more unbearable business was a matter of opinion.
Oscar Yellinek was born in 1942 in Groenstadt. Studied theology and took the cloth in Aarlach in 1971. Was active as a curate and spiritual guide in half a dozen places until he broke loose in the autumn of 1984 and started the free-church community (alternative synod) of the Pure Life. The main centre of recruitment was Stamberg, where he had also lived and worked since the beginning of the eighties.
In its early years the Pure Life had evidently led a quite anonymous existence. Nobody had a word to say against it; the number of proselytes seemed to be upwards of thirty souls (there were no reliable figures), most of them women – a characteristic that continued into the future. Meetings and services were held in various different locations, which often seemed to be rented for just a week or so, and sometimes for only one occasion.
As time went by, however, the movement began to develop a more populist profile. Together with a former fellow student, Werner Wassmann (who later left the movement after an internal schism), Yellinek began to arrange open-air meetings and to appear in more or less public places.
The message was simple, the tone attractive:
Leave the sinful, materialistic world! Come to us! Live in purity and harmony in contact with the only true God!
Membership increased, quite a lot of money was donated, and in 1988 the Pure Life’s first church was opened. It was later extended to accommodate various school activities, and eventually became competent enough to teach years one to six in accordance with official education regulations.
From the start there had been rumours circulating about Yellinek’s movement, and letters were sent to the editors of local newspapers and calls made to local radio programmes. Accusations varied from brainwashing and fascism to contempt for women and sexism, and in 1989 the mother of a member who had left the sect – a seventeen-year-old girl – brought an action against Yellinek for indecent assault and sexual abuse.
The case attracted a lot of attention, and had undeniable appeal for the mass media. Speaking in tongues. Compulsory mortification of the flesh. Big meetings at which all participants were naked, and Yellinek exorcized the devil collectively from the whole congregation. Girls being spanked on their bare bottoms. And a number of other activities with marked sexual undertones. Or overtones. The Pure Life was sometimes described in newspapers as the sex-sect, sometimes as devil-worshippers, and the eventual outcome was that Yellinek was sentenced to six months in prison for mild indecency and illegal compulsion.