Polychrome (6 page)

The staircase, as nearly always, looked even worse than
expected. From the ground to the top floor – on which Mrs
Krystyna Bończak lived – it was adorned with messages for the
owner or administrator. The authors had taken care over the
assortment of coloured sprays, less over the words which were
frequently repeated.

The door on which he knocked was less shabby. He heard
the clicking of crutches on the other side.
‘Good morning, you can’t even leave a sick woman in peace,’
Mrs Bończak said as soon as she opened the door. He had no
idea how, but she knew she was talking to the police.
‘Good morning, Mrs Bończak,’ – he tried to be as polite as
possible.
‘Might as well come in, seeing as you’re here.’ She turned,
leaving the door open. She could have not let him in, could
have kicked up a row, yelled, but she didn’t. Her voice was
dispassionate, resigned to everything. He felt sorry for the
women, mothers; they all looked practically the same – scared,
although the eyes were sometimes aggressive, and the hands
tired, always tired.
This woman looked a little better, he thought. Maybe the
husband who generally drank and beat her, had died soon
enough, and she’d sorted things out a little. She’d dispensed
with another farce, and all she had left were her beloved
children and the hope that they too would sort things out
for themselves.
That, at least, is what he thought as he looked around the flat.
It was very small, barely two tiny rooms with a blind kitchen.
Everything appeared more than modest. The TV set could
have been the pride of its manufacturer who wouldn’t have
believed it would work for so long, but it did, as the preview of
the thousandth episode of some serial demonstrated. The only
thing which made the flat different from numerous identical
ones was that it couldn’t have been cleaner. It was clinically
clean. It smelled of corrosive cleaning agents, rather than cheap
vodka, cheap cigarettes and dirty linen.
‘How do you manage to keep it all so tidy with that leg?’ he
asked out of pure curiosity, as his eyes rested on the plaster-cast
which reached almost to her thigh.
‘I just take all day doing something that would usually take
me an hour. But I haven’t got anything to do anyway so I don’t
complain.’ She suddenly broke off, as if she’d remembered this
wasn’t some pleasant chat, and squinted at him. ‘You know that
there’s nobody here to make a mess, so what are you really
looking for?’
‘I’m here because you knew Mr Antoniusz Mikulski.
Unfortunately, he’s been murdered. We’re checking on
everybody who might have been in touch with him and, as
you know, there weren’t many.’
He thought she turned pale, but wasn’t sure. She wasn’t
upset but frowned deeply and, for a while, didn’t say anything.
‘That it could happen here is normal, but there, in that other
world? I suppose I ought to be pleased the boys have been in
prison for the past six months, shouldn’t I? It could’ve been
worse.’ She uttered the last sentence to herself; then a moment
later roused herself. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? It’s cold today.’
He hadn’t expected her to say that. He followed her into
the kitchen to help. Once, in a flat like this, he’d been offered
some juice in a glass from which he could have lifted all sorts of
fingerprints; he hadn’t even wanted to think whose. Since then,
he hadn’t usually wanted to take the risk, but now he had no
such qualms, even sensed that a familiar experience from years
gone-by awaited him. He wasn’t wrong. The tea appeared in a
glass with a saucer, and was brewed from leaves. He couldn’t
remember when he’d last drunk tea like this, but the memory
was a good one. When they sat down, he asked: ‘When were
you at Mr Mikulski’s last?’
‘I’m probably out of the picture, too. I broke my leg a month
ago, in front of the block, and haven’t gone out since. The last
time I washed his windows was before All Saints. I don’t clean
any more, but what would the old man have done? I thought
every six months wouldn’t do me any harm. He coped better
than any other man I know and only said he couldn’t manage
the windows. And I thought – how many times was it still going
to be, two, six?’
‘What do you live off now?’
‘I work a clothes stall in Wilga. Don’t have to travel. They’ve
even insured me and apparently don’t sack people. We’ll wait
and see. The work’s better now so I’m not so worried. The boys
won’t be out for another two years. And since my husband’s
dead I don’t have to kill anyone; besides, he helped me out
with that himself.’
‘What happened?’
‘What could’ve happened? He drank himself to death. Blue
in the face, even in his coffin.’ She smiled, no regrets.
‘Did you talk to anyone about Mr Mikulski? Perhaps
someone asked you for details?’ Not a good question. Even as
he asked, he knew he’d blown it.
‘Do you have any children?’
‘Not really…’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? You really do or you really
don’t?’
‘I’ve got one… on the way…’ He didn’t have to answer but
he did.
‘Well, then you’ll find out for yourself. I’ve got good sons
but I’m no fool. They lost their way, but how could they have
done otherwise, I ask you, with all those shoes costing a week
of my wages flashing around all the time, and no work for
them? I can’t understand this world. Stary Rynek to the left,
Stary Browar to the right and, all in all, I’m the only one who’s
old and poor, and they, mere youngsters, saw all this, all those
luxuries as if at arm’s length and were supposed to understand
they weren’t for them. They were good boys when they were
little. The younger one was good at drawing.’ She tried to reach
into a drawer – probably to show him some drawings – didn’t
manage and waved it aside. ‘Doesn’t matter. Then as soon as
girls came along, it all started. Their friends weren’t as bad as
the girls. Have you heard the way girls talk? I can’t believe it.
They boss, goad, tempt, tease. It’s all their fault. Have you read
my younger boy’s file?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Then read it, see where the mugging came from. How can
you scream, how can a girl scream down the whole street that
his is so tiny you need glasses to see it? They’re young lads.’
‘Everybody’s got their own problems but solve them in
different ways, you do realise?’
‘I realise perfectly well!’ She nearly got up from the table
but quickly sat down again, as if she’d suddenly remembered
about the plaster-cast, that she had a guest and couldn’t start
scrubbing the floor right away to stop herself from thinking.
‘You know how easily influenced they are? Remember they’ve
been brought up without a father.’ He’d heard enough on the
subject of children; besides, he was afraid she’d start crying.
Fortunately, she calmed down. ‘That’s exactly why anyone you
ask will tell you I cleaned in the Nowy Teatr. I knew that neither
my boys nor those girls would go there. What was I supposed to
say, that I was practically alone in some office where there was
nothing but cables and computers? To work from morning till
night to pay for lawyers? I’m no fool. Maybe my boys will come
to their senses one day. You’ll see what it’s like.’
He didn’t want to see anything or even think about it.
‘Can you tell me anything else about the Mikulskis? What
they were like? Did they have any visitors, family perhaps?’
‘They were different to the people here or on Wspólna
Street. As if unreal, from another world. And they also talked
to each other in a strange way. They didn’t even talk about the
son who’d left. They probably didn’t have any grandchildren.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know old people. If they’ve got grandchildren they go on
and on about them until you’ve had it up to here. Your mother’s
lucky.’
Slowly, this was becoming unbearable.
‘Would you be able to state whether anything’s gone missing
from the apartment?’
‘No, I don’t think so, I only washed the windows, you know.
When I do things I do them quick. I don’t have coffee, smoke
cigarettes, take breaks. And there were a lot of things there. If
would be different if I’d done the cleaning. But see if there are
any traces on the carpets. If somebody took anything you’d see.
The same as on the walls. That much I can tell you. Nobody
ever moved anything there. Apart from the furniture, books and
junk, there was only an old television set, probably like mine. I
remember Mrs Mikulska saying she’d gone to the post office to
change the radio and television licence to a radio one, saying she
didn’t intend to watch television anymore. We laughed because
the clerk had said it was impossible, if she had a television she
had to pay because she could watch it. To which Mrs Mikulska
replied that she was the one who’d bought the television set
and it was hers, but she hadn’t bought television so it wasn’t
hers, and she wasn’t going to pay or watch anymore but she
might look at the television set from time to time. I don’t know
whether the clerk believed her, but I noticed afterwards that
she’d covered the television set with a tablecloth which she
never removed. Nor did Mr Mikulski. That’s the sort of people
they were, you see. Here, people steal electricity because it’s
there. It’s a different world. Nobody’s probably even heard of a
radio and television licence.’
‘Did they have any visitors? Can you remember anyone?’
he asked, wondering at the same time whether by paying for
cable television he was actually paying for the licence or not.
‘The postman, maybe. I don’t think they liked guests. I think
Mr Mikulski did the cleaning himself – not because he liked it,
but to avoid anyone bustling around in his apartment as long
as he possibly could. Except for the windows. He was getting a
bit weird but he coped, I’ll give him that.’
‘How long do you still have to be in plaster?’
‘Two weeks, they say.’
‘We might visit you again,’ he said, rising.
‘Should I be pleased, or not?’
‘You don’t have to give it any thought. It doesn’t mean
anything. We have to talk to everyone.’ He passed the crutches
to Mrs Bończak and made towards the front door. Once there,
he retreated and asked: ‘What did you have in mind when you
said he was getting a bit weird?’
‘Nothing much, but when I wanted to throw some old
flowers away – they were withered and didn’t really fit in with
the otherwise clean apartment – he shouted at me to leave
them alone. He’d never even raised his voice before. I was a
bit annoyed. All I’d wanted to do was throw some rubbish away
even though I didn’t have to. But once I’d gone it occurred to
me that the flowers could’ve been important, maybe someone
had remembered about him, or thanked him for something.
Maybe I’ll hold on to dried flowers one day if my grandchildren
give them to me, who knows.’

He quickly went down to his car. One thing he knew for certain
– he had to find himself in the house in Sołacz as quickly as
possible; it wouldn’t give him any peace. First he came to a
standstill by Kupiec Poznański, the office and shopping centre,
and almost entirely forgot about the word ‘quickly’ a few yards
further down on Podgórna Street. Here, the cars didn’t seem to
be driving, only pushing each other along as they sluggishly
climbed the hill.

He had a long time to think it all over.
As far as Mrs Bończak’s sons were concerned, what he
heard was more or less what he’d expected. He liked the ruse
about her working in the theatre. He’d ask the local police to
check whether that was what everybody really thought, but
was almost sure it was true. If she’d told her sons the truth,
there’d have been evidence of it already. Offices like that had
everything those good boys stole – expensive mobile phones,
laptops, cameras, and Mikulski’s apartment was furnished with
antiques. Everything could be taken and would bring quick
money without venturing too far from home. One of the lads
would have stalked her over the two years, and under some
pretext or other paid her a visit. From what he’d heard about
them he guessed this was only the beginning of their careers
and – once Mrs Bończak told him there wasn’t any work for
them – he was convinced of it. He wasn’t entirely sure whether
she realised they weren’t looking for work, certainly not such
as wasn’t mentioned in the penal code.
He remembered the local cop’s words: ‘Maybe not this time,
but you’ll meet them before long, that’s for sure.’ Of the mother,
he had a good opinion.
He also decided to call an antique dealer he knew. He
exchanged some needless information with him then asked:
‘One question – tell me, what do they call those unobtrusive,
round tables which pull out to seat ten or twelve people?’
‘Have you got one? Buy it, or sell it – to me.’
‘No, I haven’t, I only wanted to know what they’re called.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Let it be. ‘Bye.’
‘Just tell me, where’d you find it?’
‘In a museum.’
‘Is that so? Drop by with it. Bye.’ He hung up.
Up until that morning, Bartol had thought he kept seeing
the table simply because he couldn’t remember what it was
called. He’d phoned the dealer to get it off his mind but knew
that wasn’t what was bothering him. Those unlikely dried
stalks just didn’t fit in. They didn’t fit in with the apartment,
didn’t fit in according to him and they didn’t fit in according
to Mrs Bończak, yet they were important to Mikulski. Perhaps
there was a simple explanation as to why the elderly man had
been so sentimental.
He phoned the police station. They were still compiling the
portrait of the man Edmund Wieczorek had seen. And it wasn’t
easy, according to Maćkowiak. Bartol heard that a technician
was still milling around on Góralska Street, therefore nothing
stopped him from going there. At four, they were all to meet at
the station.
He covered the last couple of kilometres in an unexpectedly
short time. He was surprised; he hadn’t taken a particularly
better route – there were simply no understandable rules.
The street looked different from the previous day, gloomy
and depressing. There was no snow on the enormous branches
or pavement. Mush and greyness, as everywhere. All that
remained was a sense of peace, of not being in the city.
The apartment also looked different – also grey.
The previous day, in the strong light of photographic lamps,
the well-preserved French polish on the antique furniture
had experienced its second youth, gleaming, sparkling and
reflecting – as in a crooked mirror – the porcelain figures, silver
sugar bowls and everything else on it.
Now all this had turned dull; the feeble bulbs shone too
sparingly and the thick curtains didn’t allow any daylight in,
which – as it was – wasn’t very bright.
He greeted the two technicians. They were tired and didn’t
feel like talking: blending in with the ground, they were
finishing with the carpet on the ground floor.
He didn’t immediately make his way to the dried flowers,
but studied the walls and floor. There were no traces of
furniture having been moved. To make sure, he moved one
of the paintings on the wall and was certain – the place hadn’t
been painted for a long time.
Nothing else drew his attention.
Relatively calm, he approached the table with the flowers,
or whatever they were called. He didn’t know much about
flowers, especially when they looked like this.
They’d survived, leaning against the curtain. The decorative
tissue pressing into the vase might once have been yellow; now
it had more or less faded.
The huge bow had faded, too.
Carefully, he pulled the flowers out of the vase. His intuition
hadn’t misled him; there was a note attached to the ribbon.
Did they come from the association of dead poets or retired
cultural administrators?
He asked one of the technicians to snip the note off and
search for fingerprints.
There weren’t any. The technician believed the note might
have got wet many times over before someone had decided to dry
the whole lot. He also said they’d be able to say what the flowers
were and how long they’d been drying, if it was important.
Bartol opened the note and saw some Latin words with the
postscript ‘For Aurelia’.
It was important.
The technician secured the flowers, carefully wrapping
them in foil.