Entanglement (36 page)

Szacki drank his coffee in one gulp, took the napkin off his knees and laid it on the edge of the table.

“That’s the most idiotic bluff I’ve ever heard in my life,” he said wearily. “I’m sorry you’re round the fucking twist. If you like I’ll be glad to help you find a specialist - I’ve been talking to some psychologists lately. In any case, I’ve got to fly. Thank you for lunch, I hope we never meet again.”

Teodor Szacki pushed back his chair.

From the holster under his arm he took a small pistol with a built-in silencer, and put it to Szacki’s heart.

“Sit down,” he whispered.

Szacki went pale, but apart from that he kept his cool. He slowly moved his chair towards the table.

“I don’t know how mad you are,” he said calmly. “But maybe not mad enough to rub me out in front of witnesses.”

“And what,” said the man, smiling gently, “if there aren’t any witnesses here? What if there’s no one here but my people?”

As if to order, the foreign couple, the guy in the linen shirt and the two businessmen raised their heads and waved merrily at Szacki. The prosecutor looked round at the bar. The waiter was waving at him just like the rest.

He released the safety catch and pressed the gun hard into the prosecutor’s chest. He knew it would leave a mark on his white shirt and a smell of grease. Good, let him remember.

“Do you have any other questions? Do you want to tell me I’m bluffing again? Or maybe stress how badly fucked-up I am?”

“No,” replied Szacki.

“Excellent,” he said, put the pistol in its holster and stood up. “I’m not expecting a declaration. I know that would be humiliating for you. But I believe this was our final conversation.”

He left, signalling to the man in the linen shirt to settle the bill. As he walked to the car, the wind began to blow hard and large drops fell on the dusty city, heralding a cloudburst. Lightning struck very near by.

He was wet with sweat and rain as he knelt down and vomited into the toilet at the Warsaw City Centre District Prosecutor’s Office. He couldn’t stop the convulsions. He’d already thrown up the coffee, cannelloni and grilled artichokes, his breakfast too; stinging bile was pouring from his throat, and he couldn’t stop the convulsions. His head was spinning and he was seeing stars. Finally he managed to restrain his stomach. He took off his puke-stained tie and threw it in the waste bin next to the urinals. A few more deep breaths. He stood up on shaky legs, went back to his room and locked the door. He had to think.

He picked up the receiver to call Oleg, but replaced it without dialling the number. Firstly, he couldn’t tell anyone about this. No one. The conversation in the Italian eatery had never taken place, there had never been an “OdeSB”, no one had ever wiped the tip of a barrel against his shirt, on which he could still see a faint brown mark. He was still going to work out how to get those bloody bastards in the arse, he was still going to rip them to shreds, but not a word to anyone for now. Anyone who came in contact with him was now in danger. Whoever found out something might suffer an unfortunate accident. A word too much could mean his loved ones would be in danger every time they stepped into the road even when the pedestrian light was green. Weronika, Helka, Monika too. Indeed, Monika - he’d have to end this embarrassing affair as soon as possible to take the blackmail tool out of their hands.

He called her. He said he’d like to meet briefly. He adopted his most official tone. She laughed, saying she felt about to be accused of genocide. He didn’t pick up this lead. It turned out she wasn’t in the city, but at home, writing an article, and she wasn’t going anywhere until she’d finished.

“Maybe I’ll drop in for coffee,” he suggested, not believing he’d do it. Of all possible ways to break off their relationship this one - dropping in for coffee - was undoubtedly the worst.

Of course she was delighted. How could it be otherwise? He asked for the address and couldn’t help snorting with laughter when she told him the name of the street.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Andersen? Anyone can tell you’re not from Warsaw instantly.”

“How?”

“Because you said you live in Żoliborz.”

“All right, if you like, it’s in Bielany.”

“Bielany? Girl, Andersen Street is in the provinces, it’s the Chomiczówka flat blocks.”

“Administratively it’s the Bielany ward. And I have to tell you you’re not being very nice.”

“What if I bring you a packet of coffee?”

“I might forgive you. I’ll think about it.”

 

It was coming up to six. He was stuck in the traffic at Bankowy Square, listening to the radio. The wipers were on full, lightning was striking in the very centre of town, and it felt as if every second flash was hitting the car’s antenna. There was a small bag of cakes sitting on the passenger seat. He had recently vomited, and now he felt as if he could eat them all and put away a plate of pork knuckles too. Next to the cakes there was some mint-flavoured mouthwash he’d bought on his way to the car. He’d used it once at the car park, opened the door and spat it onto the wet tarmac. The people at the bus stop had given him a surprised look.

Six o’clock. He turned up the radio and switched from Antyradio to the ZET channel to listen to the news.

“We’re starting with a tragedy in Warsaw,” said the presenter cheerily, and Szacki wondered if ZET paid lower taxes in
return for employing handicapped people, and whether it had the status of a sheltered workplace for the disabled. “In a city-centre area surrounded by high-rise blocks and trees, lightning killed a woman who was on her way to fetch her seven-year-old daughter from playschool. Our reporter is on the spot in the North Praga district.”

Teodor Szacki felt he had ceased to exist. He was nothing but hearing, despair and the hope that it wasn’t her. He drove into a bus bay and switched off the engine.

“The thunderclap was immense. I’ve never heard anything like it in all my life,” an excited old man was saying. “My wife and I were standing at the window, watching the lightning, we both love to do that. We saw the lady running along, she seemed to be hopping from tree to tree, trying not to get wetter than necessary, but even so she was soaked through.” He could see this scene in his imagination. He could see Weronika, in jeans, flip-flops, a wet shirt clinging to her body, her hair dark with water, raindrops on her glasses.

“Suddenly there was thunder and lightning all at once, I thought it was the end of me, the entire courtyard lit up, I was dazzled, I don’t think she even screamed. When I got my sight back, I saw her lying there.”

Reporter: “That was Władysław Kowalski, who lives on Szymanowski Street. An ambulance came immediately, but unfortunately resuscitation attempts failed to save the woman. Her daughter is at present in the care of police psychologists. This is Marek Kartaszewski for Radio ZET, from the Praga district, Warsaw.”

Presenter: “We’ll go back to that story in the news at seven, when our guest will be a professor from the Warsaw Polytechnic who’s an expert on lightning strikes. Marshal of the Sejm Włodzimierz Cimoszewicz announced today at a press conference…”

Szacki wasn’t listening. For the fifth time he called Weronika’s number and for the fifth time he got her voicemail. Half-conscious, he called directory enquiries, got the number for Helka’s playschool on Szymanowski Street and called. It was busy. He called both numbers by turns. The first wasn’t answering and the second was busy. He was just about to call Oleg, when he heard a ringing tone. He didn’t know which number it was.

“Hello, Playschool.”

“Good afternoon, Teodor Szacki calling. My daughter’s at your school in group four. I’d like to know if my wife has already picked her up.”

He was sure the woman would answer: “What? Don’t you know what’s happened?” He could almost hear those words, and he felt like hanging up to put off the moment when he knew for sure that his wife was lying dead on the tarmac in a Praga courtyard, he was a widower and his dearest darling daughter had lost her mother.

He imagined himself living alone with Helka, the two of them coming home to an empty flat. After something like this would the mysterious SB-man still go on threatening him? Would Monika want to meet with him? Would Helka grow fond of her? He was furious with himself for these idiotic thoughts.

“Just a moment, I’ll go and check,” said the playschool lady and put the phone down.

He thought she must surely have gone to fetch a policeman. She was afraid to tell him herself.

Someone picked up the receiver.

“Hi, Teo,” he heard a man’s voice and felt like starting to howl. Tears were streaming down his face. “Konrad Chojnacki, now North Praga, formerly City Police. We worked together a year ago on the scrap merchant case, remember?”

“Fuck it all, just tell me,” he croaked.

“Tell you what?”

“The truth, dammit, and what—” He started sobbing into the phone. He couldn’t gasp out another word. He wanted to hear it at last.

“My God, Teo, what’s wrong? Wait, I’ll get the wife.”

The wife? Whose wife? What was he talking about? He heard some whispering in the background.

“Mr Szacki?” It was the same lady’s voice as before. “Helka’s not here any more, her mother collected her half an hour ago.”

He couldn’t understand a word of it.

“What about the lightning?” he asked, still crying.

“Oh yes, it’s a dreadful story. Konrad told me. Dear God, when I think it could have been at our playschool, that one of our children’s mothers could have been killed, it makes me want to weep. Such a tragedy. But I’ll hand you back to Konrad.”

Szacki hung up. He didn’t want to talk to his old pal now, who had turned up in the worst place at the worst moment. He leaned his head on the steering wheel and wept for all he was worth, this time out of relief. The phone rang.

“Hello, why are you trying to get hold of me so badly? Is something wrong? We were in a shop, I didn’t hear the phone.”

He took a deep breath. He felt like confessing all to her, but he lied instead.

“You know, sometimes I deal with matters I can’t even tell you about.”

“What a job. I’d prefer not to tell you about some of my trials too.”

“Unfortunately, today I’ve got to stay late and I can’t very well explain.”

“How late?”

“I don’t know. I’ll be at City Police Headquarters. I’ll send you a text when I can.”

“Well, tough, Helka will be upset. Just remember to eat something normal, and don’t live on nothing but cola and chocolate
bars. You’ll get a fat tum, and I don’t like guys with pot bellies. OK?”

He solemnly promised to eat lettuce, told her he loved her and that at the weekend he’d make it up to Helka somehow. After which he turned on the engine and sailed into the stream of cars heading for Żoliborz.

 

The high-rise in Chomiczówka was big and ugly - like all the blocks in Chomiczówka - but the flat was very nice, though the ceilings were low. And surprisingly big for one person, about two hundred square feet. He was holding a glass of white wine with ice and letting himself be led around. There was a book-cluttered sitting room with an antediluvian television set and a soft sofa in the leading role, and in two smaller rooms Monika had established a bedroom and a dressing room/junk room. It was evidently a rented flat - the kitchen fittings, wardrobes and bookshelves said: “Hello there, made in the 1970s when there was no Ikea yet.” The hall was decorated - how else? - in pine panelling.

There were photos everywhere - stuck on the walls, pinned up, hanging in clip frames. Postcards, photos from journeys, photos from parties, photos from the papers. But most of them were personal: Monika as a child with an inflatable elephant, Monika on a camel, Monika asleep on the floor, with someone’s (her own?) knickers on her head, Monika on skis, Monika by the sea, Monika naked reading a book on the grass. There was also the picture she’d sent him, in the white dress at the seaside. He saw how young and fresh she was in the photos, and felt bloody old. Like an uncle visiting his niece. What was he doing here? Earlier, still in the car, he’d taken off his jacket, undone his top shirt button and rolled up his sleeves. But compared with Monika - barefoot, in denim shorts and a shirt with a reproduction of Edward Hopper’s
Nighthawks
on it, he looked like a civil servant. He smiled at this thought.
After all, he was a civil servant, so what should he look like? “I wondered whether to take half these photos down when I found out you were coming. I even started, but I gave it a rest and went shopping. Do you like pasta and spinach?”

“Why?”

“It’s nearly dinner time so I thought we could eat something before coffee.”

She was awfully tense. She didn’t look him in the eye, her voice faltered, and the ice lumps rattled in her glass. She wouldn’t stop pacing, almost hopping around him. Now she ran into the kitchen.

“Why did you want to take down the photos?” he called after her.

“I look bad in some of them. I’m too thin or too fat, or too childish, or something else isn’t right. Anyway, you can see for yourself.”

“I see a great-looking girl in a thousand scenes. Never mind if you’ve got an awful hairstyle in this one. Aren’t you too young to have had an Afro?”

She came running.

“Well, exactly. I should take that one down at least.”

She ran back into the kitchen. He wanted to kiss her, but he’d prefer it to happen of its own accord, like yesterday. To occur naturally. Besides, he had come to tell her it was over, hadn’t he? He sighed. Better get it behind him quickly. He went into the kitchen. She took a thread of spaghetti out of the pan and tried it.

“Another minute. You can get the plates out of the cupboard over the fridge.”

He put his glass on the tabletop and fetched out two deep plates with a blue border. They reminded him of the canteens at the old workers’ holiday camps. The kitchen, though long, was hopelessly narrow. He turned round with the plates and for
the first time that evening gazed into her eyes. She immediately looked away, but in that moment he found her beautiful. He thought how he’d like to wake up beside her, at least once.