Polychrome (14 page)

‘Thank you, you’ve explained it clearly. A bunch of dried
sunflowers was found in the same house with a note attached
to it:
Expecto donec veniat
. ‘
She said nothing for a long while.
‘Maybe you want some coffee? Because I'd like some more.
You’ve presented me with some interesting puzzles. That’s good
because I thought I was going to get rusty.’
‘I’ll have some, too, now.’
She made her way towards the kitchen and again set the
espresso machine into motion. His eyes didn’t leave her. He
liked the way she moved.
‘Can you dry sunflowers?’ she said after a while.
‘Yes, like everything else, I suppose, but they don’t look very
nice after six months. That’s one of the reasons we think they
might have some sort of significance, seeing as somebody kept
them for so long, especially with the note. Although they’re not
very symbolic, apparently.’
‘I see you’ve already done some homework. Well done. But
they do appear in various images, generally associated with
the rising sun, hope and so on. At a push they’d suit the words,
I’ll check in a minute. I don’t know where I know it from but I
think it’s Job who did the moaning.’
‘Yes, it’s from the Book of Job. Chapter 14, verse 14.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ She put her cup of coffee aside and started
jotting.
‘Does it bring anything to mind?’ he asked.
‘No, or not very quickly. There are a lot of possibilities. One
could concoct rebuses, puzzles, stick things together in various
ways. I have to think all this over quietly. I need more facts.’
‘Okay, I’ll bring the photographs and more information
about the circumstances in which all this took place. But that’s
not all. There was another murder yesterday.’
Her eyebrows shot up, eyes opened wide; she froze with that
expression for a long while. Then nervously brushed aside her
hair, got up from the sofa and started circling the room.
It seemed to Bartol she was behaving just like him but
double-quick. First, surprise then, a nervous about turn.
‘This isn’t funny,’ she said after a while. ‘In fact, it wasn’t funny
from the start, but I approached it like a puzzle not bearing in
mind what had actually happened. I’m never going to grow up,
never going to get any wiser, there’s nothing but nonsense in my
head! Isn’t there a shred of empathy in me? These aren’t drawings
on a wall! A man has died!’ She was talking to herself, her voice
growing louder and louder. ‘And now another one, and more
dicta. There has to be, that’s why you’re here. What were they?’
‘
Speculator adstad de sui,
on the frame of a pair of glasses
.
’
‘I’m not going to make up what it means, I don’t know right
now. A literal translation’s not going to give us anything. It could
be an abbreviation of something. I need time. I’ll put all my
work aside today and look up everything I can. The yogurts
can wait.’
‘I didn’t want to spoil your day too much. I’m sorry.’
‘Rubbish. Besides, it’s my hobby. I search for information
about various products in a number of foreign language
newspapers for money. Open source intelligence, nothing
interesting, it can wait. What am I saying, not it can wait, it has
to wait. You know why? You know what I think? I don’t know
whether I’ve seen too many films or it’s your expression, but
two’s not enough.’
‘What are you thinking?’ He was afraid of her answer.
‘The numeral two also means something of course –
development, for example, equilibrium, man and woman or,
more ominously, light and shadow, irreconcilable opposites and
so on. But it isn’t a divine number; the divine number’s three.
The most beautiful of the primaries. Three is greatness, light,
holiness. The beginning, middle, end for the Pythagoreans;
the Trinity for Christians. In other words, for everybody it
signifies perfection. I could talk about it for hours. I might be
oversensitive but I can’t stop thinking otherwise.’
‘It’s a bit unprofessional, but I couldn’t help thinking I was
witnessing some sort of drama either.’
‘Exactly, a play in three acts. To put it grandiloquently, these
are ominous premonitions. You know what, there’s no time.
This somebody has it all planned out to the last detail and is
following a script. He’s written it himself and, unlike us, knows
how it goes. With premeditation, as I think you put it. How
much time elapsed between the first murder and the second?’
‘Three months, more or less.’
‘So maybe we’ve got a bit of time still.’
She approached the wall of books, gazed at it for a long time
then said: ‘That’s probably not enough. I’ll have to go out today,
after all. Let’s meet tonight. Please bring the photographs.’
‘All right,’ he answered, totally compliant as he got up.
‘What time can I call?’ he added, now a little more spitefully.
‘Whenever you like. If the worst comes to the worst you can
always leave a message. After all, I could be in the loo. I don’t
know and don’t want to know how other people resolve the
problem, but I don’t go around carrying the phone around my
neck. I promise I’ll call back.’
He made towards the hallway. As he pulled on his jacket, he
glanced at Magda. Perhaps she was even pretty, perhaps even
more than averagely so. Opening the door, he was the first to
speak: ‘Good, I’ll see you soon. I wish you success.’
‘Thank you. Not very romantic circumstances but it’s nice
meeting you.’
‘You too.’
She leaned towards him but stopped mid-way.
‘We don’t know each other all that well, sorry.’ She extended
her hand.
‘Not at all.’ He squeezed her hand, a little too hard; she was
very slender.
He walked down the stairs slowly but still had to halt on the
half-landing. As always, when angry with himself. He started
staring at the floor.
Who’d put lino on old, wooden stairs instead of restoring
them? When were people in this country going to start respecting
what there was left? Why didn’t anyone think about it?
Why did it always have to be like this? Why did it always
turn out that she had to be right, that sooner or later it turned
out that he should have listened to her? Why did even her
convoluted grumbling always make sense? After all, he could
have dropped in on the girl and talked to her earlier, perhaps
he’d have got further, known more? Where did he get this
narrow mentality from? Who was he trying to spite?
But maybe that’s not what it was about; maybe he could
have returned that damned dictionary and everything would
have turned out differently?
Now what? He wasn’t going to compete with that boy and
besides, he was going to be a father soon.
For a change, he ran down the rest of the stairs two at a time.
He no longer cared about the way they looked. He wanted to
run away without really knowing from what.
He nearly knocked over an old woman who passed him in
the doorway.

The mist had started to lift. You could almost see it rising and
dispersing as it tried to reach clouds which hung obligingly low
as they consented to hide the city from the sun. The weather
was still inclement. It was best not to expose oneself to it. Bleak
thoughts, making the most of the darkness and damp, clung
to each other more readily than usual. Cars moved along
even more sluggishly as though, apart from eternally red lights,
they increasingly felt the resistance of the air, heavy with
grey dampness.

Halfway between Wierzbięcice in Wilga
and the station,
Bartol stopped thinking about anything whatsoever. His head
began to ache pitilessly: because of the wavering air pressure,
diagnosed the radio cheerfully. He agreed with the diagnosis
and found some painkillers in his glove compartment. Luckily,
he arrived at headquarters relatively quickly or as quickly as
it took for the pain to ease off. He didn’t know what to put it
down to – the pill, which he rarely took, or the building which
always acted as a remedy for his own problems.

There, he heard that a certain Franciszek Konopka was
already waiting for him. For a moment, he couldn’t recall any
Franciszek. Until Mrs Regina Konopka suddenly appeared in
front of his eyes and, of course, Franciszek. Bartol wondered
how long he’d been waiting. He ran up the stairs, jostling
somebody again; he didn’t know whom he apologised to.

‘Good morning. Maciej Bartol.’ Out of breath, he greeted
the boy already seated in the interview room. ‘Sorry I’m late
but I’m glad to see you’re awake,’ he added in a friendly tone
as he removed his jacket.

‘Good morning,’ the boy merely muttered back, and lowered
his head again.
Bartol wondered when Franciszek had developed this
reaction of turning in on himself. Was it before the huge
pimples had appeared on his face, followed by the scars which
served as a reminder of badly treated acne?
He thought about himself, about his skin. What would have
happened if he hadn’t spent many humiliating hours at the
beautician’s? He remembered how he’d tried to flee the first
time; he hadn’t got very far. His mother had been in the waiting
room. At the time, he’d thought she was spying on him; he
hadn’t borne in mind the fact that she knew him very well,
since he was born.
He hung up his jacket and started questioning the boy.
‘You know what’s happened. Can you tell me any more
about Mirosław Trzaska? Apparently you were friends?’
‘I wanted to be but my mother wouldn’t let me.’
‘Why not?’ He wasn’t surprised.
‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled.
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ he thought. Franciszek was young,
with complexes; he probably hadn’t dared bring ‘one of those’
home, or any other. That’s probably why he went to bed with
the hens. He decided to start with that.
‘I was looking at your hens yesterday. It’s the first time I’ve
seen anything like it. They’re beautiful. I especially couldn’t tear
my eyes away from the small cockerel. He looked aggressive.’
‘Did he?’ Franciszek suddenly came to life. ‘It’s a Japanese
fighting breed. He was hard to get hold of. It was entirely by
chance. The rest are crested and green-legged hens. It was
Mirek’s favourite, too, that cockerel. Valour and beauty rolled
into one!’
‘True. There was something of the Uhlan about him. What
else did he say?’ Bartol already knew he’d knocked one wall
down, not to say the henhouse.
‘He justified my mother saying that, in her own way, she was
worried. I was a late child, you know, my older brother died
on a motorbike when I was little. But he also said I ought to do
something with my life, become more independent, get out of
the house a bit, that I ought to go to school again. I was good at
technical college but my mother got ill after my father died. I
only had a year left but somehow didn’t finish.’
Bartol felt sure she’d fallen ill with blood pressure.
‘He nearly convinced me once,’ Franciszek continued of
his own accord, ‘and I told my mother. She fell into such a
rage we had to call an ambulance. She screamed saying I
wanted to leave her, send her to her grave just like my father
did. Although, you know, he’d died earlier. She didn’t let me
visit him later, kicked up terrible rows, screamed he must be
some sort of a pervert, that they were everywhere. I preferred
not to listen so I let it go. Besides, he hadn’t been quite himself
recently, since his dog went missing. Harpsichord was found
three days later but Mirek seemed out of sorts.’
‘The dog was called Harpsichord?’ laughed Bartol.
‘Good, isn’t it? He’d found it when it was a puppy. It had
whined so much which is why he called it that, so he told me.
He adored the dog.’
‘When did you last see Mr Trzaska?’ Bartol asked as a
formality.
‘Three days ago. I met him in a shop. We even had a pretty
long conversation. He said he’d thought of a strategy.’ He
started smiling to himself. ‘I was to tell my mother the European
Union pays more per hectare if you pass your final school
exams. She’d have believed it too, because she thinks people
from the Union are stupid enough for that sort of thing,
and since they’re handing out money anyway they might hand
out some more. It wouldn’t have been a complete lie because
I might have learned something else and got something out
of it. She’s now ready to sell all the land.’ He grew pensive.
‘And then? We agreed I’d get all the papers ready and he’d
sort it out because I don’t really know where to go. I’ve lost
the knack of town.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have done it? Did Mr
Trzaska have any enemies?’
‘Mirek! Sorry, Mr Trzaska. He said he hated any titles to
his name. He told me to call him that himself.’ He reflected.
‘Enemies, no. Nor burglars – because he didn’t have anything.’
Something seemed wrong to Bartol. Konopka was
confirming everything Trzaska’s colleagues at work and a
platoon of homeless people had said about him. But it wasn’t
in character with the Trzaska of fifteen years ago and with what
Polek had discovered.
‘Did Mr Mirosław have any family?’
‘Everybody’s got some sort of family.’ Franciszek pondered
and after a while added: ‘But Mirek never spoke about it. He
lived here alone and hardly anybody visited him. He once
said that you can start everything in life anew, that you can
become an entirely new person. And maybe he’d started anew
but I didn’t ask why he’d finished with his old life. That’s how
it looked to me anyway. There must have been an important
reason. Everybody’s got problems, maybe he had big problems.’
Bartol got up and started to pace around the room nervously.
Finally, he walked up to the window, stared out without seeing.
He was furious with himself; why hadn’t he thought of it
sooner? What the young man had said was obvious, after all.
Hence this altruism, hence this asceticism. He’d experienced
something in life and was now doing penance. What for? Why
under a different name? He had to find out as soon as possible.
There wasn’t any point in looking for Mirosław Trzaska’s family,
Mirosław Trzaska’s friends, Mirosław Trzaska himself because
they’d probably never be found. They had to look for someone
who knew the man before he became Mirosław Trzaska.
And right away. Maybe something connected the real one to
Mikulski. Yes, that would be the clue he was looking for; of
that he was certain.
He turned and looked at Franciszek Konopka, who’d
lowered his head again. Again, he felt sorry for the boy. He
was going to carry on driving his mother and her friends to
rosary-TV parties from Thursday to Thursday. And curl in on
himself even more. All that would be left would be pimples, a
bad bite and hens who don’t give a hoot.
He reflected for a while, and suddenly the solution came all
by itself. There was always a solution, so his mother had taught
him. Now it could prove true.
‘How old are you, Franciszek?’
‘Twenty-three,’ the young man replied in surprise.
‘Trzaska was right, start studying.’ Bartol purposely
addressed the lad by his first name so as to encourage him.
‘Pass your exams, then study zoology or some other –ology. Get
some air.’ He saw the boy come to life, only to drop his head
again a moment later.
‘I wouldn’t know how… I’ve forgotten everything… I don’t
even know where I’m supposed to go. I don’t know how to
approach receptions and offices. My mother always goes
everywhere.’
‘A good thing she likes walking. Listen, I know somebody
who’ll do that for you at the beginning. She likes that sort of
thing. She’s got the right approach and a few acquaintances in
the right places. She’d get to those offices with her eyes shut.’
Bartol went up to the jacket hanging on his chair and
pulled out his wallet. He kept the business card in one of the
compartments as a souvenir. At last it would come in useful.
On the business card appeared:
Daniela Bartol – mother
, and
their home number.
He remembered how he’d had to go to the post office to collect
the recorded letter that came with it. He’d laughed. The note was
just as he’d expected: seeing as he hadn’t deigned to phone for a
week, maybe he’d forgotten the number; if so, she was reminding
him about herself and politely informing him that she’d had a
hundred such business cards printed at the same time because
there was a good offer and, well, just in case.
He glanced at the business card once more and handed it
to Franciszek.
‘This woman will help you with everything. She once taught
at a secondary school and an extramural school, too. She’s my
mother. I’ll tell her about you, but don’t dare not phone. It’s not
worth it, I tell you, because she’ll find and force you anyway.
You know something about that, too. Are we agreed?’
‘Yes,’ replied Franciszek Konopka in a not altogether certain
tone, but Bartol was convinced he’d phone.
Saying goodbye, he extended his hand.
‘Well, good luck. Wait and see – you’ll cope.’
‘Thank you. You, too. He was a good man.’
‘I’ll try, just like you.’
Franciszek Konopka left the room, grasping the business
card. Right after him left Bartol, who’d decided to find Lentz
as quickly as possible. Lentz wasn’t to waste time searching for
Mirosław Trzaska’s non-existent family. And Bartol wasn’t to
forget to phone his mother and warn her or he’d have to rush
off to the post office again, or whatever else she’d come up with.