Bare Essentials

By Sylvia Tascher and James D. Navratil

This epic drama opens in Boulder, Colorado, at the home of Oxford-educated Robert Dalton, an internationally known chemistry professor. His houseguest is Jozef Bardowski, head of the analytical laboratory of Warsaw’s Nuclear Energy Institute. Knowing that Dalton, accompanied by his Polish-born wife, Helena, will shortly embark upon a year’s sabbatical at the University of Vienna, Bardowski expresses his fears that someone is introducing mind-altering drugs into Poland’s natural gas to subdue the Polish people. To present the matter to the United Nations, he asks Dalton to analyze gas samples to be smuggled from Warsaw into the Austrian capital. Dalton agrees, unaware that by doing so, he will subject both himself and Helena to acts of terror, including an attempt on his own life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664141278

Sylvia Tascher

THE AUTHORS The late Sylvia Tascher Navratil was a very prolific writer, producing three other novels, several books for children, two technical books, and many musical scores and poems. Her talent for creative writing was inherited from her parents, both of whom were respected authors. More about Sylvia can be found in The Bear Hug, published by Xlibris. Dr. James D. Navratil was educated as an analytical chemist at the University of Colorado and is now professor emeritus of environmental engineering and earth sciences at Clemson University. His other teaching experiences include serving as a chemical training officer in the U.S. Army Reserve, teaching general chemistry at the University of Colorado, and teaching chemical engineering and extractive metallurgy subjects at the University of New South Wales, Australia, where he also served as head of the Department of Mineral Processing and Extractive Metallurgy. Dr. Navratil earned numerous honors, including a Dow Chemical Scholarship, the annual award of the Colorado Section of the American Chemical Society (ACS), Rockwell International Engineer of the Year, two IR-100 awards, and three society fellowships. He was a member of the IAEA team awarded the 2005 Nobel Peace Prize. Dr. Navratil has four patents to his credit and has given more than 450 presentations, including lectures in more than one hundred countries. He has coedited or coauthored 19 books, published more than 250 scientific publications, and has served on the editorial boards of over a dozen journals.

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Prologue

December 1981

Not far from Vienna’s first district, on heavily trafficked Währinger Strasse, stands a sizable gray stone building. Home to the university’s chemistry department, the block-long structure appears imposing at any hour. But at day’s end, when its premises have been vacated, the towering edifice takes on a foreboding, almost sinister shape.

The school’s more resolute (or foolhardy) researchers are either unaware of this nocturnal phenomenon or choose to ignore it. For these reasons, it is not unusual to find professors and students in the building at any hour of the day or night. Accordingly, it is no surprise to see, on this late Saturday evening, a lone individual at work in a laboratory on the fourth floor. What is surprising is that this visiting academician occupies the premises when winter is attacking the city as if in avengement for some unsettled score. Such commitment on his part surely results from total indifference to nature’s bombardment since it has to be taken for granted that anyone with a semblance of sanity would have left hours ago.

Let us now zero in on this presumptive simpleton.

One glimpse confirms that in the man’s home base of Boulder, Colorado, he has been aptly dubbed a poor man’s Robert Redford. Indeed, the resemblance is striking! And it is these handsome features, together with enticing azure blue eyes, extraordinary physique, and an undeniable aura of machismo, that invariably prompt women of all ages to attempt to seduce him. Indicative of this is that earlier in the evening, he had found it expedient to disengage himself from the amorous embrace of a young well-endowed Austrian beauty. But in light of his present concentration, it must be presumed that womankind in general is the farthest thing from his mind.

If it were judged by Western standards, Robert Dalton’s arena would be thought to resemble more an alchemist’s chambers than a modern research facility. The room’s few attending lights cause shadows to loom on its high-ceilinged, unarrayed walls and into its darksome corners, and the colorful illumination from shopwindows on the opposite side of the street casts distorted figures on its aged, hoarfrost-covered windows. The howling wind and blowing snow further amplify the eerie climate. In light of the above, one would need no great imagination to smell dragon’s blood or to envision mythical monsters lurking about. Nor is this similitude diminished by the futuristic, gleaming chrome gas chromatograph mass spectrometer with which Dalton works. Rather, the spooky atmosphere is intensified by a resounding click, click, click as the apparatus spews forth its analysis onto a stream of graph paper.

Dalton’s wife had recently smuggled out of Warsaw several samples of natural gas. He is now evaluating the gas in hopes of corroborating an allegation made by a recently departed colleague, Jozef Bardowski, that behavior-modifying drugs are being covertly added to Poland’s fuel. Bardowski, who, until his bizarre death, was chief of the analytical laboratory of Warsaw’s Nuclear Energy Institute, had alleged that the Russians were introducing such mind-altering drugs to subdue the Polish people during the workers’ drive for an independent trade union. He had further claimed that the Russians intended to include similar drugs in gas destined for Western Europe once the Trans-Siberian pipeline was completed.

The American’s attractive brows furrow his bewilderment as with one hand, he grasps the paper to study the pattern developing. Fingers of the other, a boyhood habit, abstractedly run through his thick blondish hair. So engrossed is he, he remains unaware that behind him, the laboratory door has opened. An unseen hand tosses a Molotov cocktail into the room, which explodes at once, shooting flames in every direction. Dalton springs to his feet. His unbelieving eyes race about to see chemical after chemical ignite.

Because the aged structure was never equipped with an overhead sprinkler system, the sea of flames fast creates an inferno. Within seconds, fire is licking at Dalton’s feet and legs. Poisonous fumes have permeated the air, choking, blinding, and disorienting him. It does not occur to him that hand extinguishers are located on either side of the door. Paralyzed with fear, he crouches forward, striving to see through the noxious haze, his only thought, Am I to die as did Jozef, leaving but charred remains as my legacy to the world?

Chapter 1

September 1980

A few miles northwest of Colorado’s large, teeming capital stand the stately Flatirons. Clustered adjacent to these peaks is the city of Boulder. This attractive Front Range community is home to the University of Colorado and numerous governmental and private scientific installations. But because of its proximity to the mouth of Boulder Canyon, down which annoyingly swift winds customarily sweep, this area often finds itself nature’s unwitting victim.

On this Indian summer evening, nature’s endowments upon the community are almost overwhelming. They are especially splendid once the glorious orange sun begins its descent. Though a balmy northerly breeze prevails, the temperature remains at such a comfortable degree that those inhabitants enjoying the outdoors find it unnecessary to don so much as a sweater.

The Dalton home, situated in the southwest hills overlooking the city, provides its two residents an unobstructed view of that part of the awesome redstones known locally as Devil’s Thumb. To the rear of the attractively designed split-level cedar and brick dwelling is the garden, its landscape abounding year-round with brilliant foliage. In that, the owners have allowed a large portion of the yard to develop naturally; the colors afforded by the present profusion of Indian paintbrush, mountain rue, wood violets, foxglove, bluebells, mountain daisy—to name but a few—make the setting particularly pastoral. A further complement, interspersed about the grounds, are several tall and graceful, well-groomed pines. Sprinklings of autumn gold are evident, and here and there can be observed a patch of bright crimson. As a result of the abundant floral umbrage, the air is heavy with fragrance.

On the flagstone patio at the rear of the house is Helena Piatrowska Dalton. A petite woman, she is clad in a boldly patterned halter-top dress of variegated shades of blue. Long dark curls waft gently from beneath a colorful kerchief of matching blue tied about her well-shaped head. On her small neatly pedicured feet are sandals of the same color. Dainty plastic beads adorn her slim throat and earlobes. And in keeping with her miniature frame, even the diamond and joined wedding band upon her left hand are delicate.

Casual observation would judge Helena beautiful. Set in a kitten’s face, her Slavic eyes are her most striking feature: they are large, dark, and lively (nonetheless intriguing had they belonged to a homely face, however) and appear especially so in the diminishing sunlight. Her creamy olive complexion is absolutely flawless. Small pointed chin and high cheekbones are paired with a fine straight nose, the nostrils of which are minutely tapered. Close scrutiny, however, would reveal a slight facial imperfection in this otherwise perfect specimen of womankind: Helena’s mouth is contrastingly generous. But one rarely sees this inexactness. For when she graces one with her dark sweeping lashes or commands one from the depths of her cocoa brown eyes, one’s lasting impression is that Helena Dalton is remarkably well-favored.

Brandy sniffer in hand, she is seated upon a be-cushioned redwood deck chair adjacent a circular table of like wood. Matching the umber-colored cushions on the chairs is an umbrella, which is now lowered because of the hour. Helena is not alone. Her partner in a native duologue, Jozef Bardowski, is seated on the chair next to hers. Not only is he the Daltons’ dinner guest this evening, but he is to be their weeklong houseguest as well. His presence in Colorado, occasioned by a five-day conference on mass spectroscopy sponsored by the American Chemical Society, had commenced the previous evening, following a lengthy transatlantic flight originating in Warsaw.

Jozef looks almost out of place in this sumptuous setting. Though he is fashionably dressed and well-tailored, his clothes are no match to those of his splendidly attired companion and would conceivably be considered gauche by Helena’s circle of friends.

He has been making every attempt to camouflage his extreme fatigue so as to enjoy his compatriot’s company. For perhaps the dozenth time in the course of the hour, he shifts his weight upon the cushion and raises his glass to toast his lovely hostess.

Helena returns his salute, a knowing smile upon her pretty lips. Her eyes travel over the fine big man, from his heavy shoulders to his powerful biceps. To denote his strength, she is sure, his tanned face, neck, and arms appear golden fleeced with sun. As her eyes caress first one and then the other of his big square hands, she finds herself longing to touch him. And because of her fascination with him, she is oblivious to the occasional sounds invading the evening air—children’s voices lost in play, the rise and fall of laughter, the barking of dogs, the passing of an occasional automobile.

She forces amorous thoughts from her mind to consider the here and now. Has Robert informed you of Johann’s offer? This allusion to her husband’s forthcoming sabbatical purred from her. For whether she spoke in Polish, German, French, English, or the smattering of Russian she had learned as a girl, Helena used a polished affectation in speech to maintain primacy over any attendant. And she privately reveled that whoever her partner might be, her confidential whisperings precluded that the party in question be drawn into an intimate tête-à-tête. Since she knew Jozef alone was able to peer beneath this plastic veneer, she went to great length to mask her fragility from him.

It was not only her face and manner of articulation, Jozef was prone to admit. As he now observed her from the corner of a drowsy eye, he was also reminded that her entire demeanor suggested that of a soft, cuddly kitten, one who would be compliant and loving in return for a gentle caress and a warm saucer of milk. He knew she could be thusly obliging, but he also recognized that she was a woman whose early years of hardship had imbued her with rigid determination and unusual sagacity, thereby had been created a willful female infused with remarkable self-esteem and the compelling desire to succeed. Yes, he had known her long, but he had to concede that her thinking remained an enigma to him.

In studying her face made even more mysterious by dusky light, he was further reminded that her eyes suggested complete surrender to him and to any male fool enough to lose himself in their depths. Still, he would have taken a blood oath that—with the exception of her husband—she had never known another man intimately save himself.

Yes, he tells me he’ll be taking a year’s leave beginning in January. Will you be able to accompany him? Her questioning disclosure had come as no surprise to Jozef since it had been he who had connivingly arranged for Dalton to conduct research in Vienna. Indeed, Jozef had gone to great lengths to ensure Robert’s upcoming presence in the Austrian capital.

Helena full well planned to join her husband, but she purposely responded with hesitation. I hope so, Jozef. I’ve requested a leave of absence . . . but to date, I haven’t been informed one way or the other.

Realizing he was fast fading with the last vestiges of light, she excused herself, rose, and went to the patio door. There, she flicked a switch to bring to life an array of colorful oriental lanterns that had been strung from pillar to pillar above the redwood deck at the onset of the summer season.

She then went to the far corner of the patio, where stood a handsome brick charcoal grill. From its backing, she removed a small gadget, struck it, and moved to the first of a pair of candelabra, one on each side of the patio door, to light a seemingly endless barrage of candles. The first taper momentarily flickered and then sprang to life. At once, its spicy perfume began to commingle with the sweet fragrances of nature, and soon, the air was abundant with the exotic amalgamation.

Jozef watched her. As he absently considered the three-way battle being waged between each sputtering wick, the determined flame and the gentle breeze, he was also mindful of the occasional zap of a flying insect being singed to death as it was drawn into a deck-side extermination device. Will you accompany Robert to Warsaw? he called.

If I’m able to make the trip at all, most beloved, quite naturally I will go to Warsaw, she issued sweetly.

From beneath drooping lids, Jozef openly applauded her silhouette framed in the glow of candlelight, tendering, I’ve invited Robert to lecture on liquid chromatography at my institute.

That’s very kind of you, Jozef. Robert should be pleased. Though she could not see his face clearly because of the dusky light, she had a feeling his thinking paralleled thoughts she had entertained earlier on. Once the last taper was lighted, she replaced the striker and returned to his side. She then took the cigarette lighter from the table. Striking it, she put the flame to a colorful ball of wax placed at the center of the table. Within seconds, its strawberry scent was wafting to join the existing provocative element.

Jozef stifled a yawn as he inclined his girth against the table edge. Helena, dearest, your mother often speaks of you. It would be such a blessing for her to see you again. And Maria—

Helena chose to ignore his shaded locution. Why don’t you marry Maria, Jozef? She’s always been in love with you. Wishing to appear as nonchalant as she had intended her remark, her well-manicured fingers flew to her chin to untie her scarf. As it fluttered from her hair, she saucily tossed her head to free her tresses to the breeze.

Jozef was mindful that in the artificial illumination, her hair appeared jet black—as black as her heart seemed to him at that moment. And because he was certain she had purposely intended to wound him, the response he tendered was uncharacteristically harsh.

An uncomfortable lull followed, during which neither of them spoke nor so much as looked at each other. Eventually, he selected a cigarette from the humidor on the table. Because he did not smoke habitually, he toyed with it for a moment or two and then with the lighter. Once he decided to light it, he inhaled deeply, exhaling as slowly, the blue smoke encircling his dark Polish head before being swallowed up into the perfumed atmosphere. Inhaling once more, he inclined his head against the chair and, without moving it, lowered his eyes to appraise Helena. He was making up his mind to satisfy a plaguing doubt. Jaw set square, tender dark eyes fastened upon her, he suggested solemnly, You have everything here, Helena.

Because Helena was sincerely contrite for her unsportsmanlike comment made minutes before, her mouth trembled, making her response indistinguishable.

Are you truly happy, my darling? he persisted.

She forced a smile to her lips. As happy as one can be, I suppose. Her eyes were unable to meet his, but the dusky light could not hide the glint of a tear on her long, upswept lashes.

Helena, sweet one, look at me!

Helena’s eyes, made twice their size by their sudden wide-open gaze, disarmed Jozef. Each was aware also that for the countless time, she had betrayed herself, for she saw her naked soul reflected in his eyes.

Jozef’s handsome face twitched sharply. Damn! he exploded. His clenched fist smiting the tabletop sent everything clattering. Why in the name of God do you continue to stay with him?

Impulse felled Helena to her knees, her upturned, unhappy face petitioning his, anger-flushed. Jozef, Jozef, why do you persist so? Jozef, my dearest one, you know I will always be yours. But I must insist you drop this distressing subject . . . for all time. You are Robert’s guest . . . in his home. And I am his wife. I implore you to accept the situation . . . the way it is.

Her words were wasted as the cigarette slipped from his fingers to the ground. As his hands gripped her shoulders, she felt her head against his chest, his face buried in her silky mane. She was at once overcome with bliss and allowed herself to relax in his embrace. Breathing in his mannish odor, the contented feeling enveloped her, making her heady.

The intimate contact brought Jozef to life. Mad with lust, his fervid hands rushed to caress her, his lips breathing fire where they brushed her hair, her skin. Hard fingers dug into soft flesh through the thin fabric of her dress. Breath hot in her ear, he whispered huskily, I want you, Helena. My god, I am so hungry for you!

She felt his hands upon her quickening breasts. Though she too was wild with desire, she knew she must not allow it to happen and forced her hands against his chest, pleading, Jozef, you musn’t. Jozef, please, Robert will be arriving at any moment. Please, Jozef, I beg you to let go of me!

Robert’s arrival was indeed a reality. Upon hearing the patio door open, Jozef glanced up to see the shadowy figure deck side. At once, he helped Helena to her feet, she ducking behind him to quiet her leaping heart and right the bodice of her dress.

Jozef was completely composed and well planted on his feet as he extended his hand to his approaching colleague.

The broad-shouldered professor, dressed casually in expensive labeled beige sports shirt and slacks, towered over the shortish, congruently clad Pole and petite Helena. With an affable Ah, Jozef, Helena, please sit down. Sorry to be so late, Robert bussed his wife, who was still short of breath, and then dropped to the chair at his visitor’s left. His eye at once caught the bottle of brandy on the table. The unintended ambiguity I see Helena is taking care of you, was followed by Have you another glass? and a mumbled response to his own question.

Despite the fact that Jozef was no match to the handsome newcomer, his smoldering manliness could not be ignored. In addition, the slightly overweight, balding Slav was possessed of sufficient charm and genuine warmth to be irresistible to all who crossed his path. For this reason, had Robert any inkling of the preceding events or of the intimate liaison that had for years existed between his wife and her childhood sweetheart, chances are Jozef could have easily dissuaded him of such notion.

Robert drew the decanter forward, uncorked it, poured himself a half tumbler, and then, in turn, refilled the other two glasses. He toasted his guest by clinking his glass to Jozef’s and then to Helena’s. Because he had had another commitment the evening before, Helena had collected Jozef from Denver’s Stapleton airport. And since the Pole was already sawing logs by the time Robert returned home, until now the two men had had no opportunity to talk.

While Jozef and Robert exchanged amenities, Helena hastened to the barbecue. She was still disconcerted and mindlessly inspected the smoldering embers as she attempted to collect herself. The charcoal seems ready, Robert. Do you wish me to fire the steaks? she called a few minutes later.

Robert had experienced a hectic morning in the laboratory and had that afternoon exhausted himself in typical offbeat fashion. As a result, even though he was quite hungry, for the time being, he wanted to relax and enjoy the spirits in hand. In response to her question, he made his wishes known and then directed to Jozef the topic foremost on his mind, Say, Jozef, when I was on my way home, I was dumbfounded to hear on the news that Gierek’s been ousted from office. What’s happening in your country?

News that Stanisław Kania had been selected to replace Edward Gierek as the First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Polish Communist Party stunned the Western world, but it came as no surprise to most Poles, for during his ten-year reign, Gierek had plunged Poland into a hopeless economic quagmire. This enraged the people so that the party found it necessary to oust Gierek as it had his predecessor, Władysław Gomułka.

Warmed by the occasion to express his views on so noble a subject as his revered motherland, the zealous nationalist began, Stanisław Kania? Well, Robert, first of all, you should be assured that he is a man to Moscow’s liking. A tough party man! Kania’s appointment at this time does not bode well with my people espousing reform. Well, Robert, you must understand that to be a Pole is to be a Catholic. To be a Pole is to be fervently nationalistic. Well, my friend, I tell you, Kania is no Pole! He is a devout Communist! Almost without exception, Jozef prefaced his opening statements in English with well—even if merely extending a solicitous greeting. He had a fairly good command of the foreign tongue, but in speaking English, he slowed his speech sufficiently to allow himself time to think.

Robert found himself unsure of how to respond to his colleague’s unexpectedly intense reply. Do you honestly believe Gierek was ill as has been—

Jozef chuckled resoundingly, interrupting. Well, Robert, let us just say that his illness might have been speeded up somewhat by the . . . shall we say . . . extenuating circumstances. These circumstances were perpetrated by a group calling itself the Inter-Factory Strike Committee, which is trying to organize our workers so as to establish a new, independent trade union. For several weeks now, this group has been staging strikes designed to annoy the regime. Incidentally, most Poles learned about these strikes by listening to Radio Free Europe because the official media has released little information about the group’s activities. There was no mistaking the note of entreaty in Jozef’s voice as he appended, Well, Robert, surely you can appreciate that what all my people want is a decent wage and enough to eat.

My people want desperately to throw off the yoke of Communism, Robert, interjected Helena, who had rejoined the men and now sat between them at table. Despite the fact that she had resided in the United States for a number of years, in speaking English, the melodic quality of her mother tongue was still quite discernible.

Jozef glanced at her, admiring both her appreciation of the situation and her long tresses dangling beguilingly about her bare shoulders. A sly smile on his full lips, he raised his glass to salute her for the umpteenth time. Your wife is especially lovely this evening, Robert.

Helena was relieved that her erstwhile indiscretion eluded her husband, but all the same, she shot her countryman a castigating glance. To her way of thinking, his present flippancy was testimony that he had already consumed quite enough alcohol. But despite her private thoughts, at a nod from Robert, she refilled the glasses of both men.

Robert was unable to detect in the semidarkness the atypical blush charring his wife’s cheeks. Egotist that he was, he had never sensed the sexual electricity that hummed between her and Jozef. Placing a complacent arm about her slim shoulders, he extolled, Aren’t I a lucky man to have won such a dear girl? Tell me, Jozef, why is it you haven’t married?

Jozef sidestepped the issue to reply leisurely, Well, Robert, women such as Helena are very rare. The words that followed, though directed to his colleague, were intended instead for his hostess, whose luminous eyes he strove to probe in the dusky light. And I pray she never forgets who she is! There ensued a brief lull as he gathered ammunition to return to the foregone subject. "Robert, we Poles are a very strong, very proud race. That is why we constantly rebel against our system. That is why in 1956 . . . in ’68 . . . in ’70 . . . and in ’76, the workers openly defied the government. Well, Robert, of course, I cannot begin to know how well informed you are about the political situation in my country, but it seems to me the present oligarchy must now listen to the voices of the multitude. The workers speak for all of us . . ."

Robert badly mispronounced the strike leader’s name as he interrupted, This Lech Wałęsa . . . what kind of man is he? He had made the judgment years before that Jozef was a windbag and unpredictable in both word and action. Though he admired and enjoyed the man professionally, he did not find the fellow compatible socially and, as a result, found discourse with him at times difficult. Had it not been for Helena, he probably would have altogether avoided informal meetings with Jozef. Admittedly, he was interested to learn more about the people and events shaping the news in Poland, but at the moment, he was only making small talk. As a result, he was completely taken aback by the emotional response that issued from Jozef’s lips.

Why, a good man! A conscientious man! A very compassionate, altruistic human being! I am certain he can lead my people away from Communist oppression!

Is that so? Robert intoned lazily, thinking Jozef both naive and silly in displaying such zealousness. However, he had repeatedly heard from Helena that Polish life is characterized by a pervasive sense of historic continuity. Hence, he assumed there was more to come and braced himself for the onslaught.

Naturally, Jozef had no clue to Robert’s thoughts. He, too, was careful not to reveal his true feelings as far as Dalton was concerned. Chivalrous by nature, he rightfully considered Robert an arrogant, self-centered, insensitive cad, and he tolerated him solely because of his role in Helena’s life. In any event, it perpetually amazed him that Robert remained so absolutely unaware of his affair with Helena. But despite his personal disaffection for Dalton, Jozef did respect the American and, to this end, knew he was to be trusted. As to the instance at hand, Jozef prefaced his comments with relevant facts to better explain to Robert, or any unenlightened foreigner for that matter, the reasons for Poland’s existing political situation. As a result, Robert