Polychrome (23 page)

Bartol collected his thoughts before phoning Elżbieta
Ogrodniczak. She was unpleasant. She said only that she had no
idea who Jan Mikulski was, hadn’t visited Poznań for twenty years,
hadn’t received any suspicious gifts and hadn’t seen any Latin
words anywhere near her recently, or Hebrew ones for that matter.
She hoped she wasn’t suspected of anything and was allowed to
travel because she was at the airport. On her way to the Paris Fair.
When informed that it could be a matter of her own safety, she
retorted that a squadron of lawyers – who were going to get in
touch with him imminently – was watching over her safety. She
didn’t answer the question as to when she’d return and turned
off the phone.

That wasn’t the only phone she turned off. She turned off her
second phone – her company one, her third – the land line at
home; she turned off her laptop and computer. She turned off all
the alarms. She turned off the world. And waited.

She waited as she carefully dressed in the morning, like
someone waiting for somebody important. She waited as she
made some tea – boiling more water than needed, coffee –
filling the espresso machine to the brim. She waited sitting on
the terrace. A second glass of water covered with a napkin also
waited. Everything waited.

Ever since she’d received the mirror, she’d been waiting every
minute, studying herself and her life in it. She searched for the
eyes. She searched in the eyes of those who wanted to meet her
and in the eyes of those she met by chance. She searched although
she knew she wouldn’t find them because all she remembered
were the frightened eyes of a child, and those eyes she’d never see.

So she waited.
But when he arrived, she didn’t see them either; he’d hidden
them behind a pair of glasses. She remembered those glasses –
the first luxury she’d owned – which he’d lifted off her the last
time she’d picked him up. She hadn’t been able to pull them
out of his clasped fist.
She’d missed those glasses.

He couldn’t miss the cathedral. From afar, too, he caught
sight of Magda sitting on the steps by one of the side entrances.
As he approached, he noticed two old women throw her a look
full of disdain. Magda half reclined with her elbow resting
on the step above and her too-short skirt failing to cover the
full length of her crossed legs. The women had a reason to
complain. But he liked what he saw.

She wasn’t paying attention to anyone, didn’t see him until
he stood right next to her. She sprung to her feet.
‘At last. I thought you’d never come.’
‘Couldn’t get here earlier. Tell me what you’ve found.’ He
gestured at the cathedral door.
‘What? Exactly what I wanted. Aren’t you going to ask how?’
‘I thought I’d ask later.’
‘Where did you get that gift of spoiling the mood? Listen,
because this is important and I’m not going to repeat myself. I've
probably got an allergy from all those ancient papers. I looked
through seventeen volumes of Dutch prints yesterday and there
were still more. When I got home I saw some unpaid bills which
must have got lost among the pile of cards and pieces of paper.
Don’t look like that, it’s not your fault. I simply realised I was
wasting time. I tidied everything up, put it away and decided to
take a different approach. I realised I’d reached the Monastery
of Apa Jeremias in Saqqara from the fifth century because some
virtues figured there, but didn’t really have any idea what was
in the church in Szamotuły in the sacristy, for example. Don’t
look at me like that. I’ve still no idea what’s there. And it came
to me like a bolt out of the blue. A restorer of old buildings. And
Mikulski was a restorer, too. I thought I might find something
hidden somewhere in some small town with a note saying it was
going to be restored but hadn’t been described yet. But no, what I
found was something that had already been restored fifteen years
ago. Nobody had written anything about it. And this had been
found not in some little roadside church but here, in Gniezno
Cathedral. But now come and see for yourself.’
She said all this so quickly he didn’t even have time to think
it over. And, without waiting for his reaction, she took him by
the hand, opened the enormous door and pulled him into the
depths of the cathedral.

He thought he’d remember something – after all, he’d been
here on a school trip – but his only recollection was that of
being told to stop chewing gum. He’d stopped and pretended
to have swallowed it, then, when the teacher wasn’t looking,
he’d stuck it to the nose of some bishop and skilfully stretched
it over his face. The stunt had won him recognition and respect
among his friends; it had been worth it. He couldn’t remember
anything else.

But now he walked. Walked and looked around amazed,
like a child.
At St Adalbert drowning in gold, at the twisted pillars which
guarded him and looked as if they might come to life at any
moment, might curl further and crush anyone who invaded
the place.
At the enormous stained glass windows which seemed to
change the speed of light and allow it only to spill lazily over
the golden stucco work, the marble tombs, the stone floor.
At the priest who dozed in the huge confessional with an
expression of bliss on his face almost identical to that of the
bishops on the tombstones.
He looked as if he had only learned how to look esterday.
The cathedral was almost empty; only the subdued murmur
of whispering, deadened by the measured thudding of his
shoes and the clapping of Magda’s flip-flops.
They came to a halt right opposite the altar, on the other
side of the church. There, where there would usually be an
entrance, was an enormous wrought-iron grille which didn’t
partition off an atrium but another room.
‘And now take a look,’ said Magda, opening the huge grille
with surprising ease. They entered. In the light of a bulb
hanging on a piece of rope, he saw an old built-in church
pew, a huge candle, an old baptismal font, in the corner some
banners carried during processions, and on the walls paintings
depicting numerous human figures. He didn’t know what they
represented, just as he didn’t know who the bishops in the
portraits were.
‘For heaven’s sake, don’t look around, look at the ceiling, at
the polychrome!’
And he saw it.
First a host of figures, each separate in its own frame,
nearly every one holding something – colourful, old, probably
beautiful. Until recently that’s all he would have said on the
subject. He wouldn’t have known more – once, but not now.
Slowly, very slowly he stopped just looking and started reading.
He noticed the three most important figures almost at once.
Love gazing lovingly at the children surrounding her. Faith
with a cross and Apostles’ Creed, which he now recognised as
he read
Credo in unum Deum
. And the third, trusting and the
most beautiful of them: Hope with an anchor, the only hope of
a ship struggling in the seas raging behind her back.
They were the most important ones, centrally placed, but
they weren’t alone. They only reigned over the rest. Over Justice
with pursed lips, scales in one hand, sword in the other; over
the gently smiling woman pouring water into a chalice and
whom he recognised as Moderation. And over others whom
he didn’t know.
‘What do a snake and mirror represent?’ he asked.
‘Prudence, one of the cardinal virtues. Even the snake is seen
in a positive light from time to time. The phrase "be as prudent as
snakes" comes to mind but I don’t know where from, but a mirror…
There was a saying once: "What is contained in the mirror does
not reside in the mirror". In other words, you have to look wider,
not just at your own reflection. That figures. Justice is there, with
the scales. As Job said: “if my foot hastened towards deception,
may He weigh me on a just scale”, He meaning God, and punish
me if necessary. Hence the sword.’
‘I recognised her. Moderation, too. I only don’t know who
that one is, the one dragging something.’
‘It’s the only man in the group. He’s called Fortitude. It’s a
bit biased. The virtues were generally personified by women
because apparently they nurture and caress but, as you see, that
obviously isn’t enough for Fortitude. He’s dragging a shattered
pillar, like Samson, and hurrying to the stronghold at the top
of the hill behind him. To God, in other words – the refuge of
safety. I don’t know whether it’s intentional but he’s the only
one who’s entering into a dialogue with those who look at him.’
‘What dialogue? I can’t see any speech bubbles.’
‘You won’t see if you don’t look. He’s the only one moving.
He’s the only one turning round and looking at you as though
inviting you, saying: follow me, don’t be afraid, I’m Fortitude,
you be valiant too.’
Bartol stared for a long time. All the other figures were,
indeed, either sitting or standing with no intention of going
anywhere. But although he stared and stared he still didn’t feel
he was being invited anywhere.
‘As for the other young ladies,’ Magda said after a while, ‘I’ve
still got to think about them a bit, apart maybe from Silence –
there in the corner.’ She indicated one of the figures kissing a
ring. ‘I’m sure about her.’
‘Is "a wise man will remain silent until the right moment"
written there?’
‘No.’ She looked at him astonished. ‘It’s
Non Revelabo
, which
means: "I shan’t disclose". But look at the pictures in the cradles
coming off the three virtues.’
He didn’t quite know what cradles were but didn’t have
time to ask. He saw, and only then realised what he was really
looking at.
‘He’s been here.’ These were the only words he managed.
‘He has indeed. The only thing that consoles me for having
taken too long to look for it is that I was right from the start, apart
from a few tiny details. Each of the three divine virtues is further
commented upon by the symbolic images. Look at Hope. On
one side she’s got sunflowers, hopelessly stooping as they wait
to see another sunrise. And they’ll live to see it because that’s
what’s written beneath them:
expecto donec veniat
– I wait until it
appears. Perhaps the corpse lying on the other side isn’t a corpse
at all. Perhaps it’s survived the raging ocean storm behind Hope
because
dum spiro spero
, that is, as long as there’s life there’s hope.
Maybe it’ll come to life at any moment. ‘
‘That doesn’t mean much to Antoniusz Mikulski anymore.
He’s not going to come to life.’ As soon as he said this he had
no doubt whatsoever that he’d already seen a body laid out in
exactly the same position and girded with a red cloth. It, too,
had seemed to be asleep, but for eternity.
‘No, not really. Now look at Faith. She believes in one God
because that’s what’s written on the inscription in her hand and
she’s holding a cross and host. On one side of her is the Eye of God
watching her, and the inscription’s the same as the one we had
on the glasses. Why is there an eye here and he put it on a pair
of glasses? The only thing that comes straight to mind is that, in
this way, he wanted to say that he’s only a man, that he needs the
magnification of a pair of glasses or lenses, but that he’s watching
all the same. Now look at the dog on her other side.’
‘He even looks like Harpsichord.’
‘Yes, going by what you showed me, yes, he does. And there’s
the text about not holding too high an opinion of yourself.
But do you know what this dog and Gawlicki make me think
of right now, above all? A text from the Book of Revelations
about those who didn’t enter the Kingdom of Heaven… It goes
something like this. Outside are dogs, lecherers, murderers,
blasphemers and all who love falsehood and live by it. It fits in
with his character, doesn’t it?’
‘Very much. That leaves Love.’
‘Yes. And there are two representations here, too. I’ve still
got to check but take a look. Two crossed blades symbolise joint
action. The inscription below reads:
Alter alterius
. It’s an extract
from the Letter to the Galatians: “Carry each other’s burdens.”
I still don’t know how this fits in but…’
‘You know all those letters in Latin by heart?’
‘Are you mad? I talked earlier to a clever priest here. He
also told me where the words on that silver octagonal platter
come from.
Omnibus omnia
. And this is what might be most
important. I’ve noted it down. It’s a Letter to the Corinthians,
the bit about boundless Love. Listen to this: “To the weak
I became weak, to win the weak. I have become all things to
all men so that by all possible means I might save some.” That’s
an extract for someone with a mission, isn’t it? Even with
a little license for devious action if that’s the way you want
to interpret it.’
‘In the name of Love?’
‘Of course. Even in the name of Love if you like, but love of
yourself if you restrict those deserving to be saved to yourself.
And if that’s the way you’re prejudiced, then everything’s
allowed. It could be a coincidence, but as I said before, three
children in the company of Love, one on her knees and two
behind her back, is a group which appears frequently. But
everything’s falling into place too perfectly here. Maybe the
next in line to meet the son is Mrs Ogrodniczak.’
‘You guessed it might be him by looking at the paintings
on the ceiling?’
‘You overestimate me. I told you I talked to the priests here.
One very old one didn’t know much Latin but had an excellent
memory, especially as regards things about the distant past. I told
him I was writing a thesis about the restorer Antoniusz Mikulski
who played a big role in salvaging the church’s monuments at a
time when circumstances weren’t very conducive for that sort of
thing, and that I was collecting information. He didn’t recall the
name, but remembered perfectly well that the small son of one
of the restorers got lost and spent the whole night lying locked
in the chapter. He added that it couldn’t be the same man I was
writing about because he wasn’t very nice, to anyone even his son.
He shouted at the child as though he wasn’t his, but the little one
was very brave. The priest remembered very well because the
boy didn’t even cry when they found him in the morning. And
this happened some thirty years ago. Maybe it really wasn’t his
child but that Ogrodniczak’s and the priest’s? That’s something
you need to check out.’
‘Elżbieta Ogrodniczak visited the Mikulskis and apparently
it wasn’t a pleasant visit. It’s all falling into place.’
‘Come on, we’ll talk about it outside. We’re not going to hear
ourselves speak in a minute. Judging by the din I’d say there
must be two coach loads of kids, in a way that’s good… Let’s go.’
Only now did Bartol realise what had been troubling him
for some time now. The muted hullabaloo was approaching
inescapably. They managed to get out before the swarm –
whispering loudly, rustling and giggling – poured into the old
chapter house.