Polychrome (21 page)

A tiled roof, brick, wooden shutters. Flowers beneath the
windows; he’d no idea what they were called but knew they
suited the place. The same as the ivy which wound its way
around the pillars, sheltering the front door with a green
parasol of not yet fully opened leaves but which, when open,
would shroud the door completely.
From these entangled creepers emerged a woman. He
hadn’t noticed her before while she, snuggled up to the pillar,
must have been observing him for some time.
She now walked towards him. Slowly. Dressed entirely in
black. Black, too, were the enormous glasses which covered
half her face. The sweeping long skirt, tightly fastened at the
waist, undulated. He didn’t know whether it was because of the
wind which he didn’t feel or because of the flowing, determined
movements which betrayed the self-confidence he sensed.
‘Good morning. Maciej Bartol, I take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Elżbieta Ogrodniczak. Please come in. I think we’ll sit
outside. It’s a beautiful day.’ Without waiting for him to agree
as to the beauty of the day, she opened the door wide and
walked ahead.
The tone of her voice was in equal measure pleasing and
brooking no argument. He followed her.
He knew she was almost as old as his mother but she didn’t
look like his mother, even from the back. Her tight blouse clung
to a body which could have belonged to that of a ballerina
who, despite her age, had not forgotten how to keep a tight
rein on herself. Not a gram of fat, not a millimetre’s deviation
from the vertical. The long skirt, fastened tightly by a wide
belt, emphasised her narrow waist even more. Black hair, also
disciplined to lie smoothly against her head, was pulled back
close to her nape by an elastic band.
It hadn’t been the wind: the skirt undulated as it floated
through the living room. They stepped out onto the terrace.
The woman stopped, turned towards him and with a slight,
barely perceptible gesture, indicated a large wicker armchair.
He sat down, or rather sunk into it.
‘What will you have to drink?’
‘Water, if I may.’
‘You may,’ she replied and retreated into the house again.
He wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing that the interview
wasn’t taking place in different surroundings. These here
intimidated him. He felt as if he were inside some magazine:
Idyllic Life
or something like that. Lilacs of all shades and
colours blossomed; behind his back he heard the murmur of
water flowing, probably over pebbles; on the coffee table was
spread a tablecloth embroidered with flowers.
Mrs Ogrodniczak returned with a jug of water, half full of ice
beneath which swam green leaves, as if part of the green-patterned
drinking glasses. He hoped the leaves wouldn’t fall into his glass;
he loathed mint and other such extras. They didn’t.
She sat down.
‘I’m listening.’ Her face didn’t betray any emotions: there
was no half-smile, no grimace, eyes still hidden behind the
sunglasses. It troubled him.
‘Due to the circumstances I’m compelled to talk to you
about matters concerning the past,’ he began timidly and broke
off for a second.
:‘You already told me that over the phone, please go on.’
‘Jan Maria Gawlicki has been murdered…’
‘How?’
‘At home. We suspect it’s the same murderer who’d
previously killed Antoniusz Mikulski in a similar way.’ He
couldn’t be sure but sensed that something stirred the stony
face. ‘We’re searching for a connection between the two men.
Does anything come to mind…’
‘No, nothing comes to mind.’ And silence.
He now knew one thing: he couldn’t conduct the interview
this way. So he started anew; beginning in the simplest way.
‘I have a favour to ask of you. Could you please remove your
sunglasses while we talk? I find it hard to speak to you without
seeing your face.’
‘Of course, if it’ll make it easier for you.’
It didn’t. The entire surface around her eyes was one
yellow-green-red bruise. He was taken aback. He knew from
somewhere that she’d been to some exclusive renewal clinic
but he’d never expected anything like this.
‘It takes a long time to heal sometimes,’ she explained,
sipping her water and half-closing her blood-purple eyelids.
Satisfaction with the effect she’d achieved was the first emotion
he heard in her voice.
‘Mrs Ogrodniczak, we have reason to believe that if we
don’t apprehend the person who committed these crimes,
another may be committed. One of our hypotheses assumes
that we need to look for clues in the past, Mikulski’s as well as
Gawlicki’s. Hence my visit.’
She said nothing for a while; only what could have been a
half-smile appeared on her face and swiftly disappeared.
‘Am I a suspect?’
‘Probably not, certainly not directly. We’ve checked, you
weren’t in the country at the time.’
‘And now you’ve checked for yourself?’ Again she slowly
half-closed her swollen eyelids.
‘No, I wanted to talk about the past.’ He didn’t add that it
was perhaps also to warn her about what might lie ahead. He
had no idea which way the conversation would turn.
‘Well then, you might be lucky.’ She lost herself in thought.
‘We’ll talk. Go ahead and ask.’
‘You were once in love with Mr Gawlicki.’ The moment he
said this he knew he couldn’t have got off to a more idiotic start.
‘Why do you suppose that? I never loved him, I loved my
husband.’
He might have expected it. He was wondering how to begin
again but this time she was the first to speak.
‘I was nineteen when I got married. I was the happiest
girl alive, just as it should be. Everyone envied me. He was
different. Beautiful, gentle, fresh. Never stank of vodka, never
shoved sweaty hands under my skirt in an alley, roughly, just
to grope. Never. It’s just that, after the wedding he didn’t do so
either…’ She paused, then continued: ‘I didn’t know what the
problem was at the time. He held me like before, touched me
like before, smiled like before but that wasn’t enough. I didn’t
fully realise just to what extent it wasn’t enough. Then came
sweet words and taunts in turn, laughter and tears, every day
and every night. I couldn’t leave him - and not only because
it was unthought of in those days. I loved him, loved him and
thought all this had to change, that there was a way. Where did
I get the idea of jealousy? The naivety of a twenty-year old girl,
no doubt. Why Gawlicki? Out of the blue. He asked for it, came
of his own accord, not once, not twice. He was good-looking
and, in a sense, free. Did I hide it? Just enough for my husband
to notice. For it to shake him a little. And it did. That’s what I
thought when I saw him eavesdropping through the window. I
wanted to see him suffer. I left Gawlicki naked in the bedroom,
silently ran round the house and saw… him suffering, glued
to the window, staring… with his hand down his trousers…
What did I feel then? Infinite hatred, despair, helplessness. I
started to scream, he took fright, pushed me into the house so
that the neighbours wouldn’t hear. I hit him, scratched him,
he merely protected himself. In the end I stopped, from sheer
powerlessness or tiredness, I don’t know… He started to calm
me down and I was almost calm until he said that everything
was all right, until he put his arm around me… that arm, until
I saw Gawlicki in the door, until I felt his sperm trickling down
my thigh, until I saw him look at him like that…’ There was
a long silence. ‘I don’t know how a brass figure of Our Lady
with Child had come to be in our house, but it was there – at
hand. I don’t know why I kept on suffocating him when he fell,
I don’t know why Gawlicki stood and didn’t do anything. He
didn’t understand what was happening and probably never
came to understand. He said he loved me, and made love to
me. He didn’t know why I’d thrown myself at my husband,
thought he was the reason. But Gawlicki didn’t mean anything
to me and I didn’t care what he thought. At first, he testified
to the truth, that he hadn’t done anything. But later, when he
discovered I was pregnant, he blamed himself entirely. I said
it wasn’t the case, but the militia at the time took a definite
fancy to his version. A priest, and Our Lady’s head imprinted
on the victim’s skull – I think they were delighted. Nobody was
interested in what I had to say. The testimonies didn’t tally so
they made me an accomplice and put all the blame on him.
Besides, I wasn’t interested in what was going to happen to him
or to me. I only wanted to turn back time. So that my husband
could hold me again, just as long as he was there. But he wasn’t.
I hated Gawlicki as if it was his fault. I also hated his child as if it
wasn’t mine and gave it away. I never saw Gawlicki again. You’re
going to ask whether I’ve got any regrets? Yes, I only regret that
the regret came so late, probably too late.’ She stood up. ‘Now
you know everything. I don’t care whether you believe me or
not. I’m going to the bathroom to rinse my eyes. You’ll never
know whether that’s because of the memories or as a preventive
measure following surgery. You may still ask a few questions
but not too many, I feel extremely tired.’ She left.
She was right, he didn’t know why her eyes had become
redder: from the sun, tears or general exhaustion. Whether he
believed her or not wasn’t really all that important. Coming
here, he knew that, like it or not, he’d hear only her version of
events, one he’d never challenge – because how, with whose
help? As it was, he didn’t have a clue why she’d bothered to
tell him all this. She didn’t have to, and he’d never have forced
her to do so. She’d wanted to tell him, but why? He had no
intention of pondering it over. As soon as she reappeared, he
simply asked: ‘Why did you tell me all this?’
‘I wanted you to know.’
‘That much I know, but why?’
‘Now that, I won’t tell you.’ He had no idea what the grimace
on her face implied. ‘Perhaps I’m getting sentimental in my
old age.’
‘Have you had any contact with Jan Maria Gawlicki’s and
your child?’
‘No… Never… after I gave it away, never… At first I didn’t
want to be a mother and wasn’t, then I wanted to be and was…
And no longer am… You know that both my sons were killed?’
‘Yes, I know.’ He was sure now that tears, for a brief moment,
appeared in her eyes, appeared then disappeared.
‘So you also know what my punishment is, my penance.
Please don’t pester me anymore. I don’t know who could have
killed him. Maybe you have to search closer to the surface.’
‘Maybe. Some Latin maxims were found beside both
corpses. Have you by any chance received any flowers or other
trifle with a saying attached?’
‘So you think I’m not a suspect but in danger?’
‘Not necessarily, but we can’t rule anything out.’
‘No, I haven’t received anything. Now please go.’
‘Here’s my card. Please call if anything troubles you.’
‘Troubles… I no longer know what that means. I’ll see
you out.’
He stood up, angry at himself; he hadn’t played his cards
right. Maybe what she said about what had happened so
many years ago was true, but he was now certain she was
hiding something from him. He made use of the bathroom;
purposely spent a long time in there and flushed the toilet
several times, so that she wouldn’t be waiting for him at the
door when he left. It would give him time to look around a bit.
It worked. She wasn’t there, but nor did he find anything which
aroused his suspicion. He didn’t see any writing on the soap;
there were no heart-shaped chocolate boxes or photographs
of mothers with children. He didn’t see any photographs of
children either.
She was standing at a desk in a small study right next to the
front door and staring at an angular mirror lying there. She
turned abruptly.
‘All right? Have you finished?’ He had no idea whether she
was asking about the bathroom or knew he’d been snooping
around.
‘Yes. That’s a beautiful mirror.’
‘Yes, it is beautiful. I brought it back from China. It gives
a perfect reflection.’ She walked up to him, closing the door
behind her.
‘If I have any more questions, I’ll take the liberty of calling.’
‘See you.’ He didn’t know whether she was throwing him
out with these words or really thought they’d see each other
sometime. Her face had turned to stone again, the contours of
her eyes turned bluer.

Up until Polek’s phone call, Maciej Bartol had only one plan –
to find himself at Magda’s place as soon as possible and tell her
everything. Bu Polek had phoned asking what time Bartol would
be home; and as soon as he’d received the answer announced
he’d wait. Where? On the staircase. He wasn’t going to talk over
the phone. It so happened that Bartol didn’t have the slightest
wish to talk to Polek, to agree on his alibi or anything in that
vein, but he couldn’t turn him away. He assumed, at first, that it
would take five minutes then, seeing the sloshed Polek waiting
on the doormat with an overnight bag, changed his mind and
called Magda that he wouldn’t be coming that day.

It was Friday, the thirteenth to top it all, but this he hadn’t
expected.
Only a month ago Polek had maintained that he had a
grown-up daughter, yet now he was screaming: how could she
do it to a little girl? For a while, Bartol couldn’t understand
what he meant. During an ordinary morning row, apparently,
Polek’s wife had suddenly announced that, in that case, she
was getting a divorce, that he’d just helped her decide and
that their child was already an adult and would understand.
Because she deserved something in life too. Because the
fucking mountaineer – as Polek put it – would see to it. Why
mountaineer? Because apparently he’d told her that, for
him, she was the Mount Everest whose summit he wanted to
conquer. It wouldn’t have occurred to Bartol that Polek’s wife
could be any sort of summit for anyone at all, but he refrained
from saying so. For a good half hour Polek named all the
mountains and mountain ranges he knew before deciding that
he’d make Karakorum of the mountaineer’s arse then repeated
it over and over again. At a certain point, Bartol couldn’t take
anymore and admitted Polek was the one he’d seen groping a
young lady, so where was the problem? To which Polek simply
replied that that was neither here nor there because he was
only conquering the Table Mountain.
So Bartol decided not to say anything and allow Polek to
moan and get drunk as quickly as possible. In fact he didn’t see
any other solution for the evening. He poured himself small
tipples, poured Polek measures twice as large, but the outcome
was quite the opposite. Tiredness caught up with him while
Polek blabbered incoherently yet coherently enough to inform
the neighbours of his passion for geography.
Before Bartol had heard, for the hundredth time, that the
Mariana Trench was the place where all women should be put,
and how could she throw him out of the house – that in fact
he’d been the first to say he was leaving – but she should have
made him stay yet didn’t, and that the most important thing was
to have friends with whom one could conquer mountain peaks
– a litre of time had gone by. He fell asleep in the armchair,
Polek on the sofa. The latter snored terribly.
In the morning, Bartol had a headache and Polek wasn’t
there. On the table was a note: he’d forgotten his toothbrush.