Polychrome

by Joanna Jodelka

  polychrome polychrome

  a crime of many colours by Joanna Jodełka

  translated by Danusia Stok Published by

  Stork Press Ltd

  170 Lymington Avenue London

  N22 6JG

  www.storkpress.co.uk

  English edition first published 2013 by Stork Press 1

  Translated from the original Polichromia © Joanna Jodełka, 2009 English translation © Danusia Stok, 2013

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges assistance from the Polish Cultural Institute in London for its support towards the publication of this book.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  These characters are fictional and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is entirely coincidental

  All rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

  Paperback ISBN 978-0-9573912-3-9

  ebook ISBN 978-0-9573912-4-6

  Designed and typeset by Mark Stevens in 10.5 on 13 pt Athelas Regular

  Printed in the UK

  To Professor Konstanty Kalinowski Dear Professor, you were right… November that year was more like November than ever. Ugliness in all its splendour – as if for show – proud.

  Not only had the leaves already managed to fall, they had also managed to blend in with the surroundings, dance with the mud and start the slow process of decaying. Besides, everything had begun to look as if it had decided to disintegrate more vilely than usual.

  At least that’s what the inhabitants of Great Moczanowo thought and felt.

  Evidently the filth they’d once chased away from their village had now returned, since this is where it had come from; they sensed it in the air and beneath their feet again, everywhere; just as they felt everywhere the unimaginable crime which had taken place here and would remain here forever.

  They hid and wanted to believe that it was the wind, heavy with rain, and not the ever-present shame which crushed them to the ground, bowed their heads and didn’t allow them to go out without reason. Did not allow them to gabble, gossip, grumble either in the shop, on the streets or anywhere. They spoke so quietly they barely heard themselves speak, and the dogs, chained to their kennels, barked less; or maybe that’s just what everyone thought.

  They were afraid of punishment. Punishment for everything which, barely a month ago, had painted leaves and life in fiery colour.

  But what a knot of activity it had been at the time. Everywhere, in homes and by fences, in front of the shop and even by the church – although there a little muted. Half of the sentences had begun with ‘apparently’, and every detail – carried, so it seemed, by a still summery, warm breeze – had circulated lazily round the neighbourhood, there and back, provoking smiles and joyful spite cut through with a touch of outrage, as if a comma.

  People had sighed, rolled their eyes, pulled faces – openly, with satisfaction. A well-known and valued formality. Of course, the prophetic ‘it’s all going to end badly’ had nearly always cropped up, but only as part of the ritual, like an ellipsis without great significance. Because, when it came out into the open, all hell was going to break loose…

  Later, contrary to the norm, nobody had said ‘and didn’t I say so’, even the stupidest of peasant women. Because what would that have meant?

  For many more years to come, when – out of sheer curiosity

  – those working at regional administration were asked about it, they mumbled something which was a little unclear and with apparent shame, both the firm believers in God and those who only went to church on special occasions. United as never before.

  If then, some thirty years ago, a stranger had by some miracle stopped in the village, he would probably have thought it a touch more sleepy, a touch more depressing, but apart from that much like any other ‘ordinary God-forsaken hole’. He wouldn’t have discovered that this was precisely what the people thought of themselves, terrified that God had forgotten about them, or wishing He would forget. That if they didn’t talk about it, nobody would ask, ever.

  But God was on the side of the pessimists again; He was obviously partial to them in these parts. Or perhaps He had good reason.

  Because they clearly weren’t afraid of Him.

  Because it had been a priest – His servant a killer. Because evil had been conceived.

  Such things not even the people forget.

  I

  ANtoNIusz mIkulskI – retired restorer of monuments and buildings – didn’t have to get out of bed to see the old apple tree wither outside his window. He didn’t feel sorry; the tree was no longer any use. It hadn’t produced any fruit for a long time and when it had the apples had been maggoty and sour. He thought the same about himself.

  ***

  Maciej Bartol – commissioner in the Poznań police – had already been awake for several minutes. He felt the day was going to be a scorcher. He wondered whether his ex-girlfriend was going to wear the floral dress today, the one whose straps slipped down so readily. He didn’t open his eyes; he didn’t want her to disappear.

  ***

  Romana Zalewska – architect – picked up the telephone while still nearly asleep, spoke briefly but to the point, as though she were in the office and not in her own bed, naked. She’d mastered the art to perfection. Fifteen seconds later her head was nestling in her pillow again, free of guilt; she had, after all, worked late into the night.

  ***

  Edmund Wieczorek – retired postman – had been awake for two hours. He didn’t want to miss the two students who’d recently moved in on the first floor when they returned. They’d come home at dawn, as usual – not alone. He liked them; they were the only unpredictable cog in the monotonous life of those living in the tenement on Matejko Street. There was something to see.

  ***

  Krystyna Bończak – mother of two boys – was making up another parcel. The prison on Młynarska Street, again. Cigarettes, yet again. She’d prayed and cried through the night, again. She’d fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning and woken up in the morning; still, she was happy the day had already begun. Everything appeared different in the day.

  ***

  The man in strange glasses was putting on a new shirt. He was pleased: he’d just managed to fasten the cuffs – good, they wouldn’t reveal his wrists. He approached the window which never opened, and looked out at Warsaw from the height of the thirtieth floor. There was nothing to see during the day.

  ***

  Ksawery Rudzik – real estate agent – woke up earlier than usual and much earlier than needed. He didn’t like and, on principle, didn’t tolerate wallowing in bed; he’d simply open his eyes and get up. Always, but not this time. He hadn’t treated himself to a night in one of the most expensive hotels in Warsaw only to leap out of bed. He was bursting with pride.

  As if to reinforce it, he stretched languidly and with pleasure. Only five years ago everything had been different. He’d failed his bar exams for the second time; as usual it was the sons of high-fliers who’d got in but he was nobody’s son and very much wanted to change this. Five years of law, five years of hard slog, rotten food and jars from his mother – good but somehow shameful, five years of hope that everything would change, that he’d be able to go to restaurants, dinners and so on.

  It had seemed unlikely. It had seemed unlikely even when, for lack of money, he’d started working for a real estate agency, something which he hadn’t boasted about too much initially. Until it had become clear, both to him and his employer, that he was damn good at
it. Complications didn’t put him off – impoverished, greedy beneficiaries who quibbled over unassigned shares in a tenement; couples which, with a flush on their cheeks, had only recently acquired credit for their dream apartment but were now at each other’s throats, pulling out their dirty linen and justifying their unjustifiable reasons; opinionated landlords and fussy tenants – he liked all this. He’d stand between them with the expression of one who knew more, who’d solved harder cases. With superiority but also kind-hearted understanding which for years he’d rehearsed in front of a mirror. Law was also proving very useful: magic articles, incomprehensible paragraphs, an appropriately concerned expression seasoned with a loud, sympathetic sigh in the case of taxes, a couple of sentences on the tardiness of courts and cases ‘like these’ going on for years. All this, thrown in at the right moment, worked wonders.

  Yesterday, he’d passed the state exam as a real estate agent. He was one of no more than a few lucky ones. The milieu was closing in: he knew that and it suited him. Why let in new blood? There were enough people there already, the rising economy was not going to last forever, one had to prepare for worse times. He smiled with contentment as he looked down at Warsaw from on high, from a good position.

  He wondered a little longer whether to phone Kasia but decided against it. He would have to swap her, too, in the end. A pleasant girl, pretty enough – and he did love her in his own way – but she didn’t suit his perfect world. He remembered her showing him the beautiful handbag she’d bought at a bargain price. He’d praised the hideous string object curtly.

  He couldn’t understand why she didn’t notice how it made him sick, how he now hated those cut-price joys, those beautiful cheap handbags and shoes, how he loved the big, ostentatious, brazen golden logos of good brands, how he’d always loved them.

  Another visitor also appeared, unwanted in this place, at this moment. His mother. He wasn’t going to call her either. The endearment in her voice annoyed him, telling him to look after himself, dress warmly, avoid draughts, and that accent of hers, the turn of phrase which reminded him of where he came from. His lousy surname was enough. His first name wasn’t too bad; it could have been much worse – his other grandfather had been called Szczepan.

  He quickly chased away any scruples for not visiting his mother, for spending as much on one night in the hotel as would last her a month.

  Neither of them understood how little time he had to become someone, that shortly everything would stabilize, that the door to the world he wanted would close soon and everyone would live in pre-determined positions, that he had to hurry, that he could run around tower blocks in sensible shoes and rent apartments to students, but that he had to have shoes which wore down and an expression which showed it didn’t matter.

  He pondered a little longer, donned a carefully chosen shirt, smiled at the man of success he saw in the mirror and went downstairs for breakfast. He picked a good table (he saw everyone and everyone saw him), helped himself to a small portion of ham and vegetables, not too much; he’d already seen people at various receptions with plates loaded because the food came free. He even tempted himself to a little extravagance in the form of a fruit salad.

  He began the ceremony of relishing the moment, the breakfast and himself – everything was excellent. He just felt he was investing too much energy in the difficult art of appearing natural in a situation which was unnatural to him.

  Thoughts about whether he was acting naturally started to grow in strength and could have ended with him spilling coffee and treacherously revealing his natural defects. Fortunately, the man at the next table caught his eye.

  He liked to evaluate people; it had become his passion of late, and the accuracy of his judgement had increased his bank account.

  The man couldn’t have been much older than him; it was only the glasses that added gravitas. They were a bit strange – dark lenses too pale for a pair of sunglasses and yet too dark for corrective lenses; besides, the frames were also neither here nor there, neither old nor new. The dark blond hair had perhaps been well cut three months ago but had now been forgotten about and rested messily on the collar of a boring, grey shirt unfastened to reveal a cord with a gold pendant. The man looked a bit too ordinary to be a guest at a five-star hotel, nor was he a tourist who’d strayed from his group, even less so a sales representative. Most importantly, he was acting naturally. This, Ksawery could sense perfectly well, although he couldn’t explain how he’d arrived at the conclusion. The man under observation wasn’t interested in his surroundings. He wasn’t eating breakfast, or smelling the warm bread rolls; he wasn’t starting his day on a pleasant note, wasn’t smiling. He was behaving as if he’d found himself at a petrol station and was filling up with the fuel necessary for life, no more. This was how a man behaved eating breakfast standing up at a train station, but not here, thought Ksawery.

  It didn’t give him any peace. If, for example, the man had entered his office, he, Ksawery, would have raised his eyes from the computer but only for a moment, and immediately pretended he was very busy. He rebuked himself for such thoughts – he had to be careful, had to be alert, the man might be a philosopher but one who had inherited a tenement from his parents, he’d heard of such cases. One could always learn something and he, Ksawery, learned even at moments such as these. As a counter-balance, he praised himself.

  He must have watched the stranger for too long because the latter tore his eyes away from his plate, met Ksawery’s gaze and without a moment’s hesitation bowed in greeting. Ksawery, caught staring, was at first unable to do anything. He didn’t get another chance, however, because the stranger calmly continued to eat without looking at him.

  And he, too, didn’t turn his head in the man’s direction. He wasn’t proud of himself but quickly found a satisfactory explanation for the awkward situation – a foreigner; our kinsmen always turned their eyes away and pretend to look in the opposite direction.

  After breakfast, he walked past reception, asked for his bill to be made ready and a taxi to the airport to be ordered. He knew that the nice woman didn’t need any information as to where the taxi was to take him, but it had sounded good and she’d smiled differently somehow; this he’d also rehearsed. He was learning how to make an impression and was improving.

  The taxi was of better quality, too – a Mercedes with a neat, tidy and polite driver. Ksawery calmly arrived at the airport, didn’t hurry and wore the expression of a man who is not in a hurry. The airplane was even delayed according to plan. Ksawery was sure that he was the only passenger in the departure lounge pleased with the delay and it wasn’t at all because he’d barely arrived on time himself. He decided to go to the bar but still couldn’t decide whether to grumble a little or order a drink with a large quantity of ice. He didn’t decide; he didn’t have time.

  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 t
he 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?’