Polychrome (13 page)

The day brought nothing. Nothing but mud from an enormous
puddle which Bartol brought into the house on his shoes. He’d
parked in mud because that was the only space available. The
alternative was fifty metres further down and he didn’t opt for
it. He felt tired, very tired, as usual after a load of paperwork
and numerous talks with various people. Talks, all of which
progressed in a similar fashion, like the drops of rain at the
window which he watched as he reiterated the same questions.

He poured himself a glass of vodka, added water since that
was all he had to hand. Tasted it. It was sufficiently strong and
didn’t taste too bad. He had enough vodka and only a little water
but that didn’t worry him too much. He could always leave a
glass outdoors and it would fill up. He sat in the armchair and
put his feet up on the coffee table. Started persuading himself
that he’d only cover himself with a blanket for ten minutes
then go to bed.

‘Did you see that man? When did he manage to slip in, it’s only
morning? The cathedral’s just opened. Maybe he’s a thief or
something.'
‘Nonsense. You shouldn’t watch so much television. A thief

with a huge camera around his neck! He’s some kind of tourist.’
‘Tourist? At this time of day? Look at him, he’s a bit odd, as
if there’s something wrong with him.’
‘I can’t sleep recently either. He’s a tourist, I tell you. Besides,
how can you tell with his face hidden by that camera? He’s
taking a photograph of that toothless skull, like all the others.
Go and ask him if you like, maybe he’ll answer in some other
language. You can have a chat.’
The man they were discussing tore his eyes away from his
camera and smiled kind-heartedly at the nice ladies.
They briskly turned their heads away; they obviously didn’t
believe they were nice.
‘I told you he’s a tourist. They laugh at any old thing.’
‘Aha.’

Not because he’d overslept, not because he’d spilt coffee on
his newly pressed trousers. None of these things. Of a thousand
stupid reasons he chose what must have been the stupidest. For
a moment he thought he’d seen Malina in one of the overtaking
cars. He hadn’t seen her for a good eighteen months. He missed
her, perhaps not like before, perhaps a little less, but enough
to change lanes and follow the car. Why? In order to catch
a glimpse of her, see what she looked like, whether she was
happy. Perhaps she wasn’t; perhaps, like him, she regretted
things had turned out the way they had, that there was no going
back. Perhaps just so, out of curiosity.

Despite the mist and the slippery road he finally caught
up with the car. It hadn’t been her; it hadn’t even looked like
her. It had cost him a good half hour. For half of Głogowska
Street he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t accelerate because
the entire right lane was kept for delivery vans unloading all
sorts of goods, couldn’t turn because turning was forbidden; he
could do nothing but rage, and rage he did, first at everything,
only then at himself.

At a standstill in the traffic jam on Dworcowy Bridge –
which he could have avoided before – he called Maćkowiak.
He was counting on his having found something out about
the spectacles; last night, he was supposed to have visited the
shelter where Trzaska had worked. Sad to say, Maćkowiak
hadn’t discovered much. As he might maliciously have
expected, nobody remembered where those unfortunate
glasses had come from. That is, some people did recall a woman
optician bringing the glasses as a gift from an unidentified
optical company, but she’d been so nondescript that nobody
remembered her well. She’d even made out two prescriptions,
but one of the men had lost his and the other had lost himself.
He’d fallen in love, apparently, and been drinking out of love
for a week; since he was in love from morning until night he
drank from morning until night and since he loved to the point
of oblivion, the chances of finding the prescription were poor.

The day had started badly.
To confirm this Bartol drove up to the tenement on Wilga
Street. He’d got it right. It was almost the tallest in the street;
furthermore, he was convinced the apartment was going to
be on the top floor. It was. Even higher than the top floor, he
thought, when he saw narrow stairs leading to what wasn’t even
a loft but a simple attic.
When the door opened, he was struck dumb.
He’d formed some sort of opinion of what he’d come up
against. Since his own mother had hatched plans for them
to meet – and not only once if he remembered correctly – the
girl most likely had to be single. As for that, his mother knew
how to conduct inquiries. The girl had also to be more or less his
age. But here, in front of him, loomed a twentysomething young
man, taller than Bartol by a head, in jeans and with a naked
torso which could have belonged to a swimmer representing
Poland.
‘Hi, it’s a good thing you’re late.’ The boy winked knowingly.
‘Please, come in,’ he added and pulled himself up even
straighter.
Bartol still hadn’t seen Magda but already knew any theory
about a brother could be ruled out.
The day had started badly.
A moment later, from behind the boy’s massive back
appeared a small woman. He didn’t see her face; she had
dishevelled, wet hair, an odd shirt and an angry expression.
‘Good morning,’ she said over the young man’s shoulder
and, craning her head, addressed him: ‘Didn’t I by any chance
say you weren’t supposed to be here by now? I’m sorry, I think
the alarm clock didn’t go off,’ she said to Bartol gently, then
turned to the boy again: ‘But let’s not worry about that, it could
still go off, couldn’t it?!’
As she uttered the last sentence, Bartol had the impression
she grew ten centimetres taller while the boy shrunk twenty.
‘I only opened the door.’
‘The point is you were supposed to have closed it a long
time ago, from the outside. Who let you turn off the alarm? Get
dressed and good bye.’
‘I thought I’d wait and we’d have breakfast together.’
‘You can have it with mummy, off you go, because…’ She
didn’t have to finish; the boy was already in another room. ‘I
apologise once again. Please, do come in. Sit down and give
me a minute.’
‘Good morning’ was all Bartol managed to say.
Taking off his jacket, he not only regretted having phoned,
he regretted having come at all. In a blue sweater, after a long
time scrutinising himself in the mirror. He may not have ironed
the whole shirt but certainly the collar. And here? A naked
athlete and a girl with wet hair. He was still in the hallway when
the nearly two-metre boy made ready to leave. The boy tried
to dally a little longer but the young woman stood in front of
him; he didn’t try too hard.
‘All right, al lright, so now we can say goodbye,’ she said
opening the front door wide.
‘I’ll call?’ he neither asked nor stated, in a low voice.
‘Call,’ she replied, a little more gently.
‘It was super today and…’ he added out loud. Bartol had no
illusions; this, he was supposed to hear.
‘I’ve changed my mind, don’t call.’ She didn’t give the lad a
chance to finish and slammed the door.
That’s just the reaction Bartol could have foreseen. He
knew the young man shouldn’t have answered back but he
had; now he wouldn’t have it easy. He knew because of his own
experience even though, observing from the side, he was a bit
taken aback by the whole event.
‘I’m sorry about the scene.’ She apologised but didn’t look
in the least embarrassed. ‘As Aristotle said: all animals tend to
be sad after intercourse but a rooster crows.’
‘He’s young,’ Bartol said very bewildered. He didn’t know
whether he was stating a fact or trying to be spiteful.
‘I know, I know,’ she answered quite naturally. ‘Still too
much sex in sex. I promised myself in the New Year: nobody
under thirty, and what do we have?’ she broke off, looking at
Bartol. Bartol didn’t know what they had. ‘April!’ she added.
‘Manual-steering and being an all-knowing authority is all well
and good, but for how long?’ Bartol had no idea for how long.
‘For a moment,’ again she didn’t fail to let him know.
‘Looks like he’s counting on more than a moment.’ He didn’t
know why he was joining in the discussion or defending the
youngster. Male solidarity?
‘Oh, I know, he’s probably still got the watch from his first Holy
Communion, so time doesn’t fly by for him in the same way, but
what can you talk about in the long run with a horny student?’
Bartol didn’t know how to answer and didn’t want to know
what they talked about in the short run. He didn’t say anything.
He merely wondered whether or not to tell his mother all this;
he’d like to have seen her face.
‘I’m sorry, this conversation’s totally unnecessary. Please sit
down. What can I get you to drink?’
‘Some water.’ He surprised himself. Usually, nearly always,
regardless of the time of day, he asked for coffee. He probably
wanted to compose himself; besides, he didn’t intend to stay
long. She handed him a large green glass full of water, excused
herself for a moment and went to the bathroom.
He was left waiting much longer than a moment, so began
to look around. To his amazement, he had to admit the climb
would be worth it, even on a daily basis.
Simple shapes, simple colours. Height and airiness.
Thick ceiling beams and wooden columns naturally
delineated the open space without the appearance of doing
so. He studied and admired them a long time. They managed
to support the roof and give the entire apartment a friendly
atmosphere, as if in gratitude that someone had appreciated
and smoothed them down.
He gazed at all this with a touch of envy. Next to this, his
own apartment looked like a crammed matchbox which little
people had stuffed with tiny pieces of junk they’d found here
and there.
Here everything was different. Everything was modern,
angular, spacious and still too small to dominate the space.
Well planned out.
Some tiny treasures collected during her life or from her
travels, but without unnecessary ornaments except, perhaps,
a little mole – from a Czech fairy tale – against a background
of urban chimneys. Bartol wasn’t well up on contemporary art
but liked the painting. He didn’t know why.
It would probably have been too peaceful here if it weren’t
for the enormous triangular alcove stretching across an
entire wall and filled with books. Tightly filled, up to the last
centimetre. Books standing, lying, at a diagonal. Faded spines
of old fascinations interspersed with loud covers of new ones,
without rule or regulation.
His eyes fixed on the balcony door. He hadn’t expected a
balcony in this attic but there was one, and a large one at that
– not even a balcony, a terrace.
The view, too, was amazing and this at the beginning of
April, on a rainy day. Roofs of the surrounding tenements,
little balconies and the tower of the church of Mary the Queen
with its enormous clock. Now, in the faint mist, all this looked
wondrous, even without it being summer or night.
Beautiful, quite large trees grew in huge flowerpots.
‘They’re going to flower. Cherry trees.’ He’d been staring
and hadn’t noticed her standing behind him. ‘Only another
month and they’ll be covered in pink flowers. I can’t wait.
Perhaps I’ll wizen up by then, who knows?’
He turned. He could forget his first impression.
Her still-wet hair didn’t bother him anymore; she’d pinned
it back on the top of her head in some intricate way which,
combined with her upturned nose as though from a Japanese
anime, looked rather amusing. She was slim, shapely and
in a pretty cool outfit. A few minutes ago he almost hadn’t
known what that hunk had been doing here; now he didn’t
want to know.
‘All right, go on.’ She was the first to speak. ‘But please
remember what I said yesterday: as many details as possible.
You’re either not going to squeeze anything out of the text itself,
or you’ll squeeze out whatever you want. And surely that’s not
what this is all about. We need a background to the crime.’
‘How do you know a crime’s involved?’
‘Your mother told me her son was a detective. Not one from
films but a real one, an ordinary one.’
He didn’t want to ask what that was supposed to mean. Why
not ‘one of those’?
‘So we’ve got the preliminaries out of the way,’ he said
without enthusiasm.
‘Indeed we have. I’m all ears.’
They sat on the sofa. He took a while gathering his thoughts
without taking his eyes off some small orange cups, as though they
might help him. He didn’t want to look at her. For the second time
he caught himself trying to read the writing on the t-shirt she’d
slipped on. He couldn’t decipher it; maybe because she wasn’t
wearing a bra or maybe because the lettering was too small?
‘A man was murdered in January.’ He tried to concentrate
but without success. ‘Next to him were… well, maybe not next
to him… but anyway, there were some Latin maxims, maybe it
was a coincidence… but I don’t think so, apart from that we have
to check…’ He heard himself getting muddled but, fortunately,
she didn’t interrupt him and listened carefully. ‘One was on a
red piece of cloth which was partially covering him. It had
Dum
spiro spero
embroidered on it – meaning, as long as there’s life,
there’s hope.’
‘I know what it means. Do you have a photo of the man?’
‘No, I don’t.’ It hadn’t occurred to him, nor had he thought
it necessary.
‘I told you: details. What would you say if you saw the
familiar sign: a cigarette with a line through it?’
He didn’t feel like guessing games or playing at being a
smart arse, but answered: ‘No smoking.’
‘Good, and, for example, on a poster at a doctor’s surgery
with a picture of a pair of lungs above it?’
‘Smoking’s hazardous to health.’
‘To all intents and purposes the same, yet communicating
something different. In one case a forbidding order, in the other
a warning. I couldn’t put it any more clearly. Was he naked?
Was he lying, sitting?’
‘Naked and supine, covered only with the red cloth.’
‘Covered up, covered over or maybe only his privates were
covered: which was it?’ she asked expectantly and calmly,
although with a slightly know-it-all expression.
‘The material was draped over him at the hips,’ he started
answering like a schoolboy in class or at one of his mother’s
hearings.
‘Like in paintings, those found in churches?’
‘You could say that.’ They were probably misjudging each
other.
‘And where was the writing?’ she asked a fraction more
gently.
‘The lettering was half a centimetre tall, ran the length of
the cloth and, at first glance, was almost imperceptible.’ He
decided to anticipate her questions.
‘Like for the initiated. This is getting more and more
interesting. I’d best start noting it down.’ She got up, walked
over to the shelf and picked up a notebook and pen. ‘Not
everything can be explained straight away, without material.
Please bring a photo next time unless it’s strictly confidential.’
He hadn’t thought about a ‘next time’ even though she
knew what she was talking about, knew what to ask, knew her
stuff, no doubt, quite apart from her conceited tone. He needed
someone like that. She was even pretty, average but pretty.
Especially when the auburn strands of drying hair, which she
kept brushing off her forehead, slipped out of the hair-clasp.
‘It’s not as confidential as all that,’ he said after a while.
‘I won’t be able to leave the photographs with you but I can
certainly show you.’
‘No problem. I’m not going to put them up on my shelf. I’ll
only sketch a copy.’ She smiled. ‘I understand that, for some
reason, you’re looking for some symbolic connections. A dead
body also holds many meanings, especially when it’s naked.
Let’s say that’s the point and the cloth isn’t important, it’s only
there to cover what’s unworthy and indecent.’ She glanced
at Bartol. ‘Just don’t be offended,’ she added, laughing and
squinting comically. ‘That’s not entirely my private opinion
although I do agree that Nature could have come up with
something a bit different, but never mind.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not offended. I like my unworthy parts, I’ve
grown used to them.’ He smiled for the first time that day; she
was laughing, too. She sat down on the sofa cross-legged and
picked up her cup of coffee.
The atmosphere grew more relaxed.
‘Maybe it’ll be easier if we call each other by our first names.
I know your mother – we’re on first name terms – but you and
I are more or less the same age…’
‘Maciej.’ He smiled, extending his hand. He, too, had been
finding it hard even though he didn’t generally like cutting the
distance. This time, however, it had seemed a little forced.
‘I felt awkward suggesting it. After all, you are a detective,
ordinary or not. Anyway, I’m Magda.’ She extended her hand.
‘Shame it’s under such circumstances but I’m pleased we’ve
met. I was supposed to have dropped something off to you from
Daniela at one point but didn’t have the time or something, I
can’t remember anymore… But back to the point, seriously now.
I promise. Nakedness, especially in a dead body, is associated
with man returning to God the way he came, without any sign
of having lived on this earth, the way he was born. It might
not mean anything but it might, especially alongside a maxim
like that. And as for the writing, it’s an ancient saying – no-one
knows quite whose.’
‘Seneca’s, apparently,’ he broke in.
‘Apparently. It would be in character. Reflections like that can
also be found in the Bible. It follows the principle I mentioned
previously – that if we look we’ll find everything there. I’ve just
remembered the Book of Ecclesiastes: "Anyone who is among
the living has hope" and then there’s something like: "Whatever
your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the grave,
where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor
knowledge nor wisdom" – I can’t remember exactly but I’ll get it
ready. Anyway, it’s vaguely something to do with hope. They were
often found together, a corpse and words like that, or more simply
such an inscription on a tombstone. Sometimes as a warning or
admonition to the living, something like: anything might happen
when the head’s full of dreams – that was the girls’ version – or
the men’s, while the cards are being played.’