Polychrome (2 page)

Behind the glass shelf, which stood on a counter laden with
sandwiches, biscuits and slices of cakes, he saw the same man
who’d riveted his attention not more than an hour ago in the
hotel. He couldn’t understand why he kept watching him, why
he couldn’t make a move, why he felt strange. He was never
horrified by coincidences, didn’t believe in superstitions and
other such rubbish. This was different somehow; he stood and
stared, wanted to run away and stay all at the same time. He
pulled himself together after a while although he didn’t really
know after what. He began to observe and listen. This time the
man couldn’t see him so he had time; he slowly started to calm
down, as always when able to focus on the details, one by one,
with profound reverence.

The man’s voice was deep; he spoke resolutely, not very fast;
he could easily have worked for the radio. It took a while for
Ksawery to realise, with surprise, that he was speaking Polish as
though it were something strange – here in Poland, in Warsaw.

The man no longer looked ordinary although he still wore
the same shirt, unfastened so Ksawery could clearly discern
a small anchor on the cord around his neck. His hair looked
different, too, pulled back and held in place at the top of his
head by the glasses.

The stranger was rather handsome. Ksawery wouldn’t
have been able to judge this himself, no doubt, but saw it
very patently in the eyes of the pretty girl serving the man. He
recognised the smiles, the fawning. He hated it, although he
craved it for himself. To be noticed, remembered.

Hence the pursuit after self-confidence, watches, shirts – all
substitutes for something else.
He lost sight of the man for a moment because of a couple
of fuming passengers who were seeking information – from
anywhere; perhaps that’s why they were in the bar. In a split
second the nice woman stopped being nice.
He remained glued to the glass display, and the good mood
he’d been in this morning melted away like the jelly on the tarts
which had the misfortune of not having been swiftly sold. The
tarts didn’t look good from close up, nor did his reflection in
the glass.
He remembered his mother reading something about
Leonardo da Vinci, according to whom truly ingenious and
beautiful people could only be born from great passion. So he’d
been a lost cause right from the start; he hadn’t just guessed but
known his mother could barely stand his father. He knew very
well – he’d heard from the best source possible, his mother.
Now he really did want something to drink – with no ice. He
would calm down and soon his thoughts would be back on the
right track, true to plan. Perhaps he’d phone the office – that
always did the trick.
He’d walked two steps before hearing: ‘We meet again.’
He just stared, mouth gaping in surprise no doubt, and felt
like a child who, caught red-handed, knows trouble’s on the
way. But why did he feel like this? He had no idea. So he didn’t
say anything.
‘Sorry for being so direct.’ A radiant smile immediately
appeared on the stranger’s face. 'Just because I remember you
doesn’t mean you have to remember me. Please forgive me. I’m
almost certain we had breakfast together, in the same hotel,
that is. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Could be, although I don’t remember.’ He had no idea why
he’d lied and couldn’t say anything cleverer. All he saw was that
the curt reply didn’t discourage the beaming stranger in the least.
‘Please don’t be angry that I'm pestering you. You’re not the
only one I’ve pestered since yesterday.’
Ksawery hadn’t seen him pestering or paying attention to
anybody that morning.
‘I’m just passing through Poland,’ he continued. ‘I regret not
living here but that might soon change and I’ll stay for longer.’
Ksawery didn’t have time to ask where the man was from,
but his earlier peculiar unease was imperceptibly evaporating,
swiftly turning into sincere interest. And his typical, deeply rooted
aversion to small talk with compatriots was gradually turning
into equally typical, endearing native hospitality extended to
foreigners and, eventually, to Poles not born in Poland.
Their conversation, barely begun, was interrupted by a
collective groan from a dozen passengers as they heard yet
another announcement declaring a further delay of up to fortyfive minutes.
They sat down.
‘You know, when I watched you this morning, you looked
like a million dollars.’ The stranger smiled. ‘That’s a saying,
of course. A particularly successful trip to the capital, was it?’
Ksawery was astounded. Watched – how? When? But he
replied truthfully about his work, the state exam he’d passed
and would, perhaps, have wondered when the man had, in
fact, been watching him if it hadn’t been for the turn which the
conversation had taken.
The following two hours were like honey to Ksawery’s ears.
Even the most optimistic script of an intricately planned
celebration didn’t presume such admiration for himself as
he heard from the lips of this foreign stranger. The entire
conversation centred on real estate. Ksawery talked a lot, the
stranger merely confirmed everything he already knew or had
already sensed. How very underrated and still underestimated
the profession was in a developing market, what great
possibilities it had to offer such a well-educated person as
himself, what a good moment it was for development because
later there’d be branch offices where someone with experience
could make a name for himself or strong local offices which
one could open.
For the sake of the conversation, Ksawery also added that he
was intending to study estate evaluation – he’d thought about
it once and now remembered how well it had sounded. The
stranger enthused over the versatility of people in Poland, their
desire to educate and better themselves.
They took a long time saying goodbye on landing at Poznań’s
Ławica airport, hoping that they’d meet soon, which was quite
possible considering how the company where the stranger
acted as advisor was developing.
Not even the slovenly taxi driver, the dreadful heat or lack
of air conditioning in the car could make him angry. He calmly
recreated the recent conversation in his mind, basking in turn
in the flattery he’d heard and in the analysis of his boundless
possibilities.
He also imagined his potential client entering the office
and he, Ksawery, loudly joking that commissions were simply
falling into his hands. Or maybe something interesting would
turn up even sooner, he thought, looking at the parcel he’d
promised to deliver. He’d offered to do this when the stranger
had told him that he’d promised to deliver it, but wouldn’t
have time because of the delay. To the parents of a friend
who’d died; an old story. Nothing much, just a small parcel of
photographs. He’d also promised to add a bunch of sunflowers
for the grandmother, which was very important. Ksawery had
firmly refused to take money to buy the flowers – a gesture
not to say a bonus.
He couldn’t remember whether he’d hit upon the idea of
relieving his fellow traveller of the small task immediately or
only when he’d helped decipher the address in view of making
it easier to eventually find the old couple in the future. The
address was balm to the ears of the estate agent. An old villa
in Sołacz – an expensive area, an expensive street and, even if
the house looked as if it were on the point of collapsing, still
worth an incredible sum.
An excellent commission – remuneration, he corrected
himself. That’s what he ought to call it, it sounded better; he
recalled the current advice to agents.
If he’d understood correctly, the people to whom he was
delivering were the owners of the house and, more importantly,
had left no beneficiary. Such people were a rarity and equally
rarely, if at all, did they allow in a nosey agent, but with the
photographs and flowers… Even a beginner from the office
could do a great deal. But he – he could perform miracles. Yes,
he’d go there first thing in the morning. He also decided not
to tell anyone about it.
Having looked at the same crossroads and the same road
workers for the past ten minutes, he was overcome with tiredness.
His shirt started to stick to his back and his back to the dirty
upholstery; his palms were damp, too – but that was probably
due to all the excitement and not the August heat. He took a long
time wiping them on the moist tissue he’d taken from the airplane
before carefully studying the note he was to attach to the flowers.
Flowers, as if a little withered, were painted on the small card. He
didn’t like them much. In the middle were printed the Latin words
Expecto Donec Veniat
and ‘For Aurelia’ – handwritten.
He considered it strange but didn’t think about it for too
long; Latin wasn’t his strong point, let alone some words of
wisdom. He slipped the note into his wallet, in the compartment
where he kept his money, so as not to forget to attach it to the
flowers as promised.
In the end, he phoned home, even said something pleasant;
after all, he did feel the day was exceptional. He asked what
they were having for supper.
And heard – sorrel soup.
The taxi driver who’d just changed lanes saw his passenger’s
hideous grimace in the mirror. He couldn’t stand it and uttered
furiously: ‘Then find a route yourself. I’ve no idea how to drive
around this city anymore. Everyone knows where there aren’t
any traffic jams! Apart from taxi drivers, of course,’ he added
under his breath.
The passenger didn’t say a word, either then or later. He
didn’t even say goodbye.
mAcIej bArtol
, an unfledged police commissioner, thought
someone had saved his life when he heard his work mobile
phone ring. And he was not far from wrong.
For the past fifteen minutes he’d been at his mother’s. He had a
very close relationship with her generally, but not at this moment.
He’d discovered recently that her maiden name, Bogdanowicz,
indicated that she might have descended from the Tatars. Now,
he was almost certain there was some truth in it.
Things had already gone very badly when he’d told her he
was to be a father and not a very happy one at that, but when,
regrettably, he’d added that he wasn’t sure how it had happened,
her large, expressive eyes had begun to narrow into slits like
those of a wild animal and her eyelids trembled. Something
peculiar had happened to her lips, too. The anticipated attack
had followed.
The tirade – along the lines that perhaps she really hadn’t
talked to him enough about matters concerning men and
women when he was an adolescent, that if he wanted to she
could, albeit unwillingly, make up the deficit and explain to
the thirty-five-year-old fully-grown man where babies come
from – was only broken by a silly ringtone. The cabaret tune
didn’t suit the situation, and not for the first time.
He hoped it was something important; an innocent lie
which would enable him to escape was out of the question.
He didn’t know how, but his mother always knew when he was
lying or even when he wasn’t telling the whole truth.
Fortunately, the call was from Piotr Lentz. The two men
worked together but weren’t bound by friendship, so Lentz
wouldn’t be phoning without good reason.
‘Hi, where are you?’
‘Ogrody. What’s happened?’
‘Good, you’re not far. Get yourself over here. The prosecutor
and SOCO are already on their way. No point in talking. You’ll
be surprised. 6 Góralska Street.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Sołacz. Go down Wojska Polskiego Street and you’ll see a
disco on the right. They’re all here.’
He glanced at his mother who was looking at him, listening
and, for a moment, looking almost normal.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later.’ He assumed a
serious expression.
‘Fine, and I’ll buy you a couple of textbooks in the meantime.
Primary or secondary school level, what do you think?’
‘Stop, mum. It’s hard for me, too!’ he answered, knowing
full well he shouldn’t have said anything, let alone complained.
Too late.
‘You’re finding it hard!’ He almost jumped away; he couldn’t
remember when she’d last shouted so. ‘How far gone is the
girl?’
‘Two, three months… I think?’
‘No, it’s impossible, I wouldn’t have brought up my real
son like that! I’m calling the hospital. I was so sleepy after
giving birth and newborns all look alike. After all, mistakes
do happen…’
‘I’ll call you, mum. Bye.’ He smiled to himself as he closed
the door – he used to be the spitting image of her when he was
a child.
The relief was almost physical as he ran downstairs.
He’d put off talking about it to his mother for almost a month.
And not long ago he’d been happy not to have to listen to her
grumbling so frequently about his having let Malina go. It was
so damn painful every time. They’d been together for six years.
He’d been the one to mess things up. When, a year ago, they’d
both agreed to part, he’d been the only one who’d thought the
separation was temporary – it couldn’t be otherwise. Then he’d
seen her with another guy. And he lost ten kilos.
But now what? He’d have to let his mother know that things
would work out somehow. Because somehow he was going to
have a baby with a girl he hardly knew, whom she’d never seen
and whom even he hadn’t seen all that frequently.
Perhaps he was lucky somebody had been murdered right
then.
Perhaps it wasn’t going to be some plain old chase, all tidied
up in the morning when everybody had sobered up. Perhaps
he was going to have to work from morning to night and
everything, in the meantime, would fall into place of its own
accord; that did happen at times.
He almost immediately ruled out a drunken brawl in which
somebody had butchered someone and was in no state to
mumble why, or doggedly mumbled he had a reason and one
which couldn’t wait. This wasn’t the street for it or the area. But
why hadn’t Lentz said ‘you’ll see for yourself’? Why ‘you’ll be
surprised’? He thought about this a little longer but not for too
long; he arrived fairly quickly.
He could already see the flashing police lights from the wide
dual carriageway. He’d definitely never been to this street. Large
houses, which must have fulfilled their purpose of isolating
and hiding themselves from both each other and the city
even before the war, concealed themselves among enormous
trees covered in the first November snow. The narrow street
seemed to scream that it couldn’t stand any more cars, that
it had always been peaceful here. All this looked more like a
mountain spa than close to the centre of a city of over half a
million inhabitants.
He parked at the end of the pavement. A quick glance at the
cars told him who was already there; everyone, it seemed. He
didn’t even have time to approach the small group of people by
the fence before seeing Polek struggling with the zip of his jacket.
Polek was standing closest and was the first to speak.
‘Well, hello. How long do we have to wait for you? I’m going
to freeze to death.’Without waiting for a reply, he went back to
battling with his zip.
‘Hi. So why are you standing here?’ Bartol asked pointedly.
‘Because I want to do this bloody thing up.’
Bartol smiled to himself. He knew that even if Polek
succeeded in dealing with the zip initially, it wouldn’t move
any further. He knew the jacket; it had already been too tight a
year ago and today was no more than a reminder of a miracle,
the miracle of a diet a couple of years earlier. He had no idea
why Polek was trying to squeeze into the jacket now, and could
have said something but didn’t dare. He had himself recently
devoted a fair amount of time to combing and ruffling his hair
across the increasingly broad stretches of his forehead – so
he would certainly have met with some unwelcome repartee.