Polychrome

by Joanna Jodelka

  This woman looked a little better, he thought. Maybe the husband who generally drank and beat her, had died soon enough, and she’d sorted things out a little. She’d dispensed with another farce, and all she had left were her beloved children and the hope that they too would sort things out for themselves.

  That, at least, is what he thought as he looked around the flat. It was very small, barely two tiny rooms with a blind kitchen. Everything appeared more than modest. The TV set could have been the pride of its manufacturer who wouldn’t have believed it would work for so long, but it did, as the preview of the thousandth episode of some serial demonstrated. The only thing which made the flat different from numerous identical ones was that it couldn’t have been cleaner. It was clinically clean. It smelled of corrosive cleaning agents, rather than cheap vodka, cheap cigarettes and dirty linen.

  ‘How do you manage to keep it all so tidy with that leg?’ he asked out of pure curiosity, as his eyes rested on the plaster-cast which reached almost to her thigh.

  ‘I just take all day doing something that would usually take me an hour. But I haven’t got anything to do anyway so I don’t complain.’ She suddenly broke off, as if she’d remembered this wasn’t some pleasant chat, and squinted at him. ‘You know that there’s nobody here to make a mess, so what are you really looking for?’

  ‘I’m here because you knew Mr Antoniusz Mikulski. Unfortunately, he’s been murdered. We’re checking on everybody who might have been in touch with him and, as you know, there weren’t many.’

  He thought she turned pale, but wasn’t sure. She wasn’t upset but frowned deeply and, for a while, didn’t say anything.

  ‘That it could happen here is normal, but there, in that other world? I suppose I ought to be pleased the boys have been in prison for the past six months, shouldn’t I? It could’ve been worse.’ She uttered the last sentence to herself; then a moment later roused herself. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? It’s cold today.’

  He hadn’t expected her to say that. He followed her into the kitchen to help. Once, in a flat like this, he’d been offered some juice in a glass from which he could have lifted all sorts of fingerprints; he hadn’t even wanted to think whose. Since then, he hadn’t usually wanted to take the risk, but now he had no such qualms, even sensed that a familiar experience from years gone-by awaited him. He wasn’t wrong. The tea appeared in a glass with a saucer, and was brewed from leaves. He couldn’t remember when he’d last drunk tea like this, but the memory was a good one. When they sat down, he asked: ‘When were you at Mr Mikulski’s last?’

  ‘I’m probably out of the picture, too. I broke my leg a month ago, in front of the block, and haven’t gone out since. The last time I washed his windows was before All Saints. I don’t clean any more, but what would the old man have done? I thought every six months wouldn’t do me any harm. He coped better than any other man I know and only said he couldn’t manage the windows. And I thought – how many times was it still going to be, two, six?’

  ‘What do you live off now?’

  ‘I work a clothes stall in Wilga. Don’t have to travel. They’ve even insured me and apparently don’t sack people. We’ll wait and see. The work’s better now so I’m not so worried. The boys won’t be out for another two years. And since my husband’s dead I don’t have to kill anyone; besides, he helped me out with that himself.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What could’ve happened? He drank himself to death. Blue in the face, even in his coffin.’ She smiled, no regrets.

  ‘Did you talk to anyone about Mr Mikulski? Perhaps someone asked you for details?’ Not a good question. Even as he asked, he knew he’d blown it.

  ‘Do you have any children?’

  ‘Not really…’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? You really do or you really don’t?’

  ‘I’ve got one… on the way…’ He didn’t have to answer but he did.

  ‘Well, then you’ll find out for yourself. I’ve got good sons but I’m no fool. They lost their way, but how could they have done otherwise, I ask you, with all those shoes costing a week of my wages flashing around all the time, and no work for them? I can’t understand this world. Stary Rynek to the left, Stary Browar to the right and, all in all, I’m the only one who’s old and poor, and they, mere youngsters, saw all this, all those luxuries as if at arm’s length and were supposed to understand they weren’t for them. They were good boys when they were little. The younger one was good at drawing.’ She tried to reach into a drawer – probably to show him some drawings – didn’t manage and waved it aside. ‘Doesn’t matter. Then as soon as girls came along, it all started. Their friends weren’t as bad as the girls. Have you heard the way girls talk? I can’t believe it. They boss, goad, tempt, tease. It’s all their fault. Have you read my younger boy’s file?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Then read it, see where the mugging came from. How can you scream, how can a girl scream down the whole street that his is so tiny you need glasses to see it? They’re young lads.’

  ‘Everybody’s got their own problems but solve them in different ways, you do realise?’

  ‘I realise perfectly well!’ She nearly got up from the table but quickly sat down again, as if she’d suddenly remembered about the plaster-cast, that she had a guest and couldn’t start scrubbing the floor right away to stop herself from thinking. ‘You know how easily influenced they are? Remember they’ve been brought up without a father.’ He’d heard enough on the subject of children; besides, he was afraid she’d start crying. Fortunately, she calmed down. ‘That’s exactly why anyone you ask will tell you I cleaned in the Nowy Teatr. I knew that neither my boys nor those girls would go there. What was I supposed to say, that I was practically alone in some office where there was nothing but cables and computers? To work from morning till night to pay for lawyers? I’m no fool. Maybe my boys will come to their senses one day. You’ll see what it’s like.’

  He didn’t want to see anything or even think about it.

  ‘Can you tell me anything else about the Mikulskis? What they were like? Did they have any visitors, family perhaps?’

  ‘They were different to the people here or on Wspólna Street. As if unreal, from another world. And they also talked to each other in a strange way. They didn’t even talk about the son who’d left. They probably didn’t have any grandchildren.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know old people. If they’ve got grandchildren they go on and on about them until you’ve had it up to here. Your mother’s lucky.’

  Slowly, this was becoming unbearable.

  ‘Would you be able to state whether anything’s gone missing from the apartment?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, I only washed the windows, you know. When I do things I do them quick. I don’t have coffee, smoke cigarettes, take breaks. And there were a lot of things there. If would be different if I’d done the cleaning. But see if there are any traces on the carpets. If somebody took anything you’d see. The same as on the walls. That much I can tell you. Nobody ever moved anything there. Apart from the furniture, books and junk, there was only an old television set, probably like mine. I remember Mrs Mikulska saying she’d gone to the post office to change the radio and television licence to a radio one, saying she didn’t intend to watch television anymore. We laughed because the clerk had said it was impossible, if she had a television she had to pay because she could watch it. To which Mrs Mikulska replied that she was the one who’d bought the television set and it was hers, but she hadn’t bought television so it wasn’t hers, and she wasn’t going to pay or watch anymore but she might look at the television set from time to time. I don’t know whether the clerk believed her, but I noticed afterwards that she’d covered the television set with a tablecloth which she never removed. Nor did Mr Mikulski. That’s the sort of people they were, you see. Here, people steal electricity because it’s there. It’s a different world. Nobody’s probably
even heard of a radio and television licence.’

  ‘Did they have any visitors? Can you remember anyone?’ he asked, wondering at the same time whether by paying for cable television he was actually paying for the licence or not.

  ‘The postman, maybe. I don’t think they liked guests. I think Mr Mikulski did the cleaning himself – not because he liked it, but to avoid anyone bustling around in his apartment as long as he possibly could. Except for the windows. He was getting a bit weird but he coped, I’ll give him that.’

  ‘How long do you still have to be in plaster?’

  ‘Two weeks, they say.’

  ‘We might visit you again,’ he said, rising.

  ‘Should I be pleased, or not?’

  ‘You don’t have to give it any thought. It doesn’t mean anything. We have to talk to everyone.’ He passed the crutches to Mrs Bończak and made towards the front door. Once there, he retreated and asked: ‘What did you have in mind when you said he was getting a bit weird?’

  ‘Nothing much, but when I wanted to throw some old flowers away – they were withered and didn’t really fit in with the otherwise clean apartment – he shouted at me to leave them alone. He’d never even raised his voice before. I was a bit annoyed. All I’d wanted to do was throw some rubbish away even though I didn’t have to. But once I’d gone it occurred to me that the flowers could’ve been important, maybe someone had remembered about him, or thanked him for something. Maybe I’ll hold on to dried flowers one day if my grandchildren give them to me, who knows.’

  He quickly went down to his car. One thing he knew for certain

  – he had to find himself in the house in Sołacz as quickly as possible; it wouldn’t give him any peace. First he came to a standstill by Kupiec Poznański, the office and shopping centre, and almost entirely forgot about the word ‘quickly’ a few yards further down on Podgórna Street. Here, the cars didn’t seem to be driving, only pushing each other along as they sluggishly climbed the hill.

  He had a long time to think it all over.

  As far as Mrs Bończak’s sons were concerned, what he heard was more or less what he’d expected. He liked the ruse about her working in the theatre. He’d ask the local police to check whether that was what everybody really thought, but was almost sure it was true. If she’d told her sons the truth, there’d have been evidence of it already. Offices like that had everything those good boys stole – expensive mobile phones, laptops, cameras, and Mikulski’s apartment was furnished with antiques. Everything could be taken and would bring quick money without venturing too far from home. One of the lads would have stalked her over the two years, and under some pretext or other paid her a visit. From what he’d heard about them he guessed this was only the beginning of their careers and – once Mrs Bończak told him there wasn’t any work for them – he was convinced of it. He wasn’t entirely sure whether she realised they weren’t looking for work, certainly not such as wasn’t mentioned in the penal code.

  He remembered the local cop’s words: ‘Maybe not this time, but you’ll meet them before long, that’s for sure.’ Of the mother, he had a good opinion.

  He also decided to call an antique dealer he knew. He exchanged some needless information with him then asked:

  ‘One question – tell me, what do they call those unobtrusive, round tables which pull out to seat ten or twelve people?’

  ‘Have you got one? Buy it, or sell it – to me.’

  ‘No, I haven’t, I only wanted to know what they’re called.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Let it be. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Just tell me, where’d you find it?’

  ‘In a museum.’

  ‘Is that so? Drop by with it. Bye.’ He hung up.

  Up until that morning, Bartol had thought he kept seeing the table simply because he couldn’t remember what it was called. He’d phoned the dealer to get it off his mind but knew that wasn’t what was bothering him. Those unlikely dried stalks just didn’t fit in. They didn’t fit in with the apartment, didn’t fit in according to him and they didn’t fit in according to Mrs Bończak, yet they were important to Mikulski. Perhaps there was a simple explanation as to why the elderly man had been so sentimental.

  He phoned the police station. They were still compiling the portrait of the man Edmund Wieczorek had seen. And it wasn’t easy, according to Maćkowiak. Bartol heard that a technician was still milling around on Góralska Street, therefore nothing stopped him from going there. At four, they were all to meet at the station.

  He covered the last couple of kilometres in an unexpectedly short time. He was surprised; he hadn’t taken a particularly better route – there were simply no understandable rules.

  The street looked different from the previous day, gloomy and depressing. There was no snow on the enormous branches or pavement. Mush and greyness, as everywhere. All that remained was a sense of peace, of not being in the city.

  The apartment also looked different – also grey.

  The previous day, in the strong light of photographic lamps, the well-preserved French polish on the antique furniture had experienced its second youth, gleaming, sparkling and reflecting – as in a crooked mirror – the porcelain figures, silver sugar bowls and everything else on it.

  Now all this had turned dull; the feeble bulbs shone too sparingly and the thick curtains didn’t allow any daylight in, which – as it was – wasn’t very bright.

  He greeted the two technicians. They were tired and didn’t feel like talking: blending in with the ground, they were finishing with the carpet on the ground floor.

  He didn’t immediately make his way to the dried flowers, but studied the walls and floor. There were no traces of furniture having been moved. To make sure, he moved one of the paintings on the wall and was certain – the place hadn’t been painted for a long time.

  Nothing else drew his attention.

  Relatively calm, he approached the table with the flowers, or whatever they were called. He didn’t know much about flowers, especially when they looked like this.

  They’d survived, leaning against the curtain. The decorative tissue pressing into the vase might once have been yellow; now it had more or less faded.

  The huge bow had faded, too.

  Carefully, he pulled the flowers out of the vase. His intuition hadn’t misled him; there was a note attached to the ribbon.

  Did they come from the association of dead poets or retired cultural administrators?

  He asked one of the technicians to snip the note off and search for fingerprints.

  There weren’t any. The technician believed the note might have got wet many times over before someone had decided to dry the whole lot. He also said they’d be able to say what the flowers were and how long they’d been drying, if it was important.

  Bartol opened the note and saw some Latin words with the postscript ‘For Aurelia’.

  It was important.

  The technician secured the flowers, carefully wrapping them in foil.

  The police officer went back to his car. He didn’t notice the people walking past scrutinising him. ‘Just look at that, some people have all the time in the world to stare at tiny little notes. Could be a bill of exchange before the war, but now? Must be a love letter. Hasn’t he got a phone or something?’ one of them said to the other, loudly enough.

  Bartol didn’t hear or notice them as they passed. He stood still, hundreds of thoughts racing through his mind.

  Was it a lucky coincidence or sheer chance that he’d found this Latin twaddle? Maybe he was supposed to have found it? Or maybe it was all the same to whoever had left it?

  He stood there a good ten minutes before climbing into his car. The frost was setting in again; puddles of slushy snow were starting to freeze over.

  He found the number he’d recently called.

  ‘Hello, mum.’

  ‘You’re generous today. I haven’t been home yet, haven’t had time to check for you.’

&n
bsp; ‘Can you talk; not driving, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m still in the parking lot. Why?’

  ‘Do you have a pen? Can you jot something down?’

  ‘Uhm, go on.’

  ‘Expecto Donec Veniat.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what that means but I’ve noted it down and will have a look. Or no, listen, I’ll give you Magda’s number, she’ll…’

  ‘No, I don’t want the number of some Magda. Have a look if you can, if not, we’ll get someone to do it.’

  ‘As you wish. Were those words found on the corpse, too?’ ‘No, on some sunflowers, I think they’re sunflowers.’ ‘A large circle with little yellow petals all the way round?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then they must be sunflowers. You know as much about flowers as about women.’

  ‘You can’t let it go, not even for five minutes.’

  ‘Forgive me. I don’t react well to sudden changes in status. Are you surprised? It’s not even twenty-four hours since I heard I’m going to be a grandmother. Don’t worry, I’ll simmer down,’ she said, calmly now. ‘Drop round this evening.’

  ‘If I can. Drive carefully, look what’s happening on the roads. A farce for the traffic police and the whole mess will end up in A & E.’

  ‘Listen, son, do I have to remind you that I’ve had my driving licence some twenty years longer than you? I can tell you what winters used to be like if you want, and don’t tell me there weren’t so many cars around because the roads are like they used to be. Goodbye, see you this evening.’

  On the radio, too, there were warnings about driving conditions. They’re allowed to, he thought enviously. They talk into thin air and nobody answers back. He listened to the latest on traffic jams. Not good news; a fury of helplessness overcame him. The worst combination.