Polychrome

by Joanna Jodelka

  This set half of the underpaid workers of Poznań’s police involved in the investigation, dreaming. The remainder joined in when they heard the reason for the son’s quitting work: apparently he’d set off on an expedition around the world in search of something or other.

  Only a little more exotic, and somehow maliciously just, was the unconfirmed information that he’d disappeared somewhere in Burma or Laos. They couldn’t establish why Antoniusz Mikulski had been convinced his son was dead, whether simply because he hadn’t given any signs of life or because someone had brought Mikulski the news. The solicitor who, as a neighbourly favour, had drawn out the deceased’s will couldn’t remember exactly but was quite sure that the estate was to become the property of some society which looked after monuments and works of art. Nor had he been greatly surprised when Mikulski had decided to destroy the will. Old people, apparently, were easily offended and sometimes successfully managed to exploit their possessions. Mikulski hadn’t made out another will.

  Analysis of the flowers and the cloth wrapped around Mikulski didn’t bring anything special either, apart from the fact that the flowers were, indeed, sunflowers, a new but popular variety produced in Holland, which meant absolutely nothing since they could have just as easily been bought anywhere in Europe. They might have been standing there from four to nine months.

  Likewise with the cloth analysis. The material could have come from China. It contained many dyes prohibited in Europe but that didn’t mean there’d been any particular obstacles in importing large quantities. The embroidery was not factorymade but had been made to order using an embroidery machine made in Italy, equally popular in Poland as in Asia. Most of the workshops dealing with publicity embroidery were called but nobody remembered this particular commission.

  There was only a momentary stir when, during the police officer’s visit to the antique market on Stara Rzeźnia on Saturday, a trader showed Maciej Bartol some cleverly concealed hiding places in the old escritoire. The latter wasn’t greatly surprised to find similar drawers in Mikulski’s desk. In one there’d been pictures of naked women painstakingly cut out of old German and French newspapers; they looked like goods smuggled in during socialism, in the ‘50s or ‘60s perhaps, and carefully concealed from the authorities or from the authorities and the wife. The police looked through the photographs longer than any other documents; someone smiled; someone sighed; someone concluded sentimentally

  – so harmless and bland.

  Some photographs of the son were also found. He wore sunglasses in all of them as if he never visited shady places. The photographs didn’t appear very recent.

  Only one drawer contained a latter day piece of paper: a new business card belonging to a licensed estate agent called Ksawery Rudzik.

  Maciej Bartol sensed it could be important because Mikulski had remembered the hiding place after many years. Unfortunately, this too proved a dead end; nobody answered the phone. The owner of the estate agency where Rudzik worked wasn’t very talkative. He simply informed the officers that Rudzik had overdone it in life as in work; he’d been too quick to jump from a Fiat 500 into a Jaguar – figuratively speaking and literally – because a couple of months ago he’d crashed into a tree. When asked whether Mr Mikulski had ever been their client or whether the villa on Sołacz had ever been the object of a transaction, he grew very annoyed, denied it and added that Rudzik might have been doing something behind his back, it was typical of him – or rather would have been.

  The female employees of the office turned out to have more to say and to a certain degree explained their boss’s dislike of their former colleague. Although the women were more considerate, their attempts not to speak badly of the deceased

  – as was the custom – weren’t very successful. They soon presented Bartol with a dubious picture of an avaricious man in an avaricious reality. The Jaguar, which he’d driven of late, belonged to a very wealthy woman who owned a great deal of property, looked as though she were going to own even more and was one of their best clients; she bought a lot and bought it quickly. Rudzik had become her own personal advisor in real estate– and not only that, no doubt. He’d left his girlfriend – who apparently was very nice – and the agency. With a licence he could act as a free agent. Thanks to his ties with the woman he also took a couple of good clients with him: hence the boss’s extreme dislike.

  Then had come the avalanche: they did away with exams, any old bungler who’d done a course could do what he’d worked so hard to do; dreams of an élite, closed circle had gone up in smoke. Apparently, Rudzik had taken it very badly. The girl poisoned herself. They saved her but didn’t manage to save his mother who suffered a massive brain haemorrhage, maybe because she had high blood pressure, had no medication, was ashamed and had pined away. One of the agents knew somebody in the village next to the one where she lived. Apparently, when Rudzik had arrived there, a couple of women had stifled their own conscience by shouting that he’d killed his mother; somebody had even spat at his feet. Apparently, he’d climbed into his car drunk and hadn’t even covered ten kilometres. Nobody saw what happened, there were no witnesses; it’s possible that he drove into the tree on purpose – so some people say. The girls didn’t believe it though; they didn’t think it was like him, whereas it certainly was typical of him to visit old people in their home or press his business card on everyone whether they wanted it or not. Apparently, he was terribly ambitious.

  The meaning of the Latin sentences given the situation was elusive although naturally the words made everyone think, each man in his own way. The ancient saying Dum spiro spero found on the piece of cloth – ‘while there’s life there’s hope’

  – seemingly wise, in another context – was uplifting. Expecto donec veniat which was found on the card with the flowers was a complaint made by Job who had argued with God like an aggrieved party in court and, when translated, literally meant: ‘I’d wait until such a moment arrives’, and when elaborated upon was supposed to mean: when I can understand that all this makes sense, that something else exists, that I’ll get to live

  – with the latent accusation: the Lord is not really making it any easier for me which isn’t nice when a mere sign, a hope, would suffice. All in all, not very original, considering that everyone wants the same.

  Keys without a door. The symbol of sunflowers apparently gave no interesting indication, beyond the canon of European art; family tradition could neither be excluded nor confirmed; nor had any circle of friends or lovers or anyone whosoever thanked Mikulski for anything.

  Christmas came and went, and the progress of the investigation grew slower by the day.

  II

  hArpsIchord , a country mongrel, didn’t bark at the postman doing his afternoon round as it normally did. It didn’t even poke its nose out, as if it wasn’t there. It lay curled up in the corner of the old shed, licked its paws and nervously wagged its tail from time to time. It was waiting for its master. He was the only one it trusted.

  ***

  Olaf Polek, a husband of many years' standing, ate his dinner. He mashed his potatoes in with the sauce, the way he liked them. He didn’t tear his eyes away from his plate. He was trying to be exceptionally agreeable ever since morning and the more he tried to be agreeable, the more disagreeable his wife became. He didn’t know what was wrong with her.

  ***

  Franciszek Konopka, a young farmer, pretended not to hear his mother call. He wasn’t in a hurry; he was eating the same soup for the third day running. For two days it had pretended to be broth, today it was tomato soup. He was watching his new fighter cockerel.

  ***

  Magdalena Walichnowska, translator, had eaten her fill and fallen asleep. The felt-tip pen, clasped ambitiously in her hand with the intention of still noting something on the sheets of paper which had fallen on the floor, was now performing the task of its own accord, scribbling asymmetrical patterns on the orange pillow.

  ***

  Daniela Bart
ol, future grandmother, had already managed to freeze some of the gołąbki, the stuffed cabbage leaves. One never knew when they might come in useful. She’d made them with her son in mind. It was always the same: don’t worry, things will turn out fine. Just like his father. She smiled to herself every now and again.

  ***

  The girl, four months pregnant, stared at her belly anxiously. The creams weren’t helping; the thin marks appearing on her stretched skin were getting further and further apart. She wanted to cry, and not only for that reason. Possibly.

  ***

  Małgorzata Barszcz lay totally motionless; she wasn’t getting up at all that day. Only her open eyes and the infrequent blinking of her eyelids showed she wasn’t asleep. Nor was this an entirely conscious decision on her part. Her body was slowly ceasing to listen to her. It was heavy, unwilling and practically unable to move. It was happy this way, nobody was telling it what to do anymore, wasn’t giving it unquestioning commands; it simply existed, concentrating only on distributing oxygen and other nutrients to every cell individually – more slowly than usual, no need to hurry. Only the clenched muscles of her jaws had been forgotten and had not received the order ‘at ease’; the rest were on a well-earned holiday for which they had waited so long.

  Forty years of concentration, tension, vigilance, subordination. Of hard work over every word, every move, without a moment’s respite, without rest, because that’s how it should be, because that’s what her head had come up with as though it were in an aquarium, separated from all the rest. Once so proud of her consistent politics to conceal feelings, favour muscles and skin, she hadn’t expected a rebellion.

  After all, the plan had been clear.

  Balance: key word, motto, religion.

  Not equilibrium but balance, to be precise: at every moment,

  in every situation, without a break. In all its guises: to be balanced, to behave in a balanced way, a balanced style of dressing.

  Anything to be unlike her mother, to be normal, like everybody else.

  Not some sort of coloured bird, some sort of artistic soul.

  All her life she’d had an aversion to anything that was different, whether naturally or ostentatiously. Tolerance could dwell somewhere on the side, but not with her, not in her house.

  She’d spent her entire childhood hidden behind glasses, behind a plait and in navy-blue clothes, locking herself up in her room as far away as possible from her mother and all those people who were forever there.

  Walking down the street she could always tell who was going to end up in their house. She knew immediately: the hair was much longer or much shorter than anybody else’s; glasses covered either half the face or only the irises; stripes where others wore checks; everything was exaggerated, more modern than modern.

  That stupid laughter and silly conversations from morning to night about life, art, the possibility of expressing oneself – as though one could do it better. The constantly unpaid bills, strange food, strange music.

  ‘It’s wonderful, Margaret. What do you want, Margaret? You’ve got freedom, Margaret, like I never had. Look at the funky jacket I bought myself, Margaret, you can borrow it. Margaret, you’re as boring as your father. Maybe you’ll grow out of it, Margaret.’

  She grew out of it to such an extent that on the day she turned eighteen she legally changed her name to Małgorzata. Her mother never forgave her, and insisted on introducing herself as Halika; somebody had lost the ‘n’ from the name Halinka – ‘and it sounded so cool’. They were never friends. She didn’t want a grown-up friend; she wanted a normal, boring mother, red-haired if she really wanted, but not bright red hair – ‘although she looked so passionately fiery’.

  She finished studying medicine: something concrete, prestige, stabilisation.

  She avoided parties, dances and all surreptitious squeezing of her breasts. She’d seen it hundreds of times.

  Living with her mother, she didn’t invite anyone home; the few chance visits always ended the same way.

  ‘What a cool mother you’ve got. Super. Not like mine. I’ve got to go or she’ll moan that she’s got to warm my dinner up again, that I’m drifting around.’

  She tried drifting once and didn’t come home for the night, slept at a friend’s.

  She counted on her mother shouting at her.

  She was met in the morning with full understanding, a conciliatory look and warm words that she might have told her, that it was normal at her age, that she had a modern mother, that maybe she’d go straight to using a coil because who remembers to take the pill, that she wasn’t going to poke her nose into anything else, the girl was, after all, seventeen, and that now they could talk about boys.

  She left home.

  She moved into her boring father’s apartment; he was now getting bored in Canada and there were no signs of his missing the soulful mother or mundane daughter. He hadn’t had time to get used to either one.

  Nor did she miss anybody or anything.

  She led a balanced life.

  She became an optician, wore a late-autumn or early springcoloured skirt suit, went on organised excursions on which it was possible to see so much, brought back souvenirs, invited girl friends to dinner where they could quietly talk about work, savour the food and beautiful porcelain. Nothing makeshift, no odds and ends, no coloured mugs.

  No matchmaking.

  One day she mentioned that she’d once got burnt and that had been enough. She never commented on sighs and reminiscences that that’s what love is, that’s men for you.

  She loathed the memory of it but it nevertheless came back at times.

  The memory of loud music, laughter subsiding, her sleepy room and that enormous tongue which tried to fit into her mouth and spread the disgusting taste of stale wine. She’d managed to scream.

  So what if nothing else happened, so what if he’d never come back, so what if we won’t talk about it anymore, it’s better that way?

  The man never came back; she never spoke about it to her friends.

  All in all, nothing had happened; she’d never drunk wine, never been kissed, so it wasn’t much of a loss.

  When did someone or something upset the construction, as elaborate and stable as a house of cards? When did someone disturb such an established foundation?

  Was it at the reception during the training course to which she didn’t want to go? When, as usual, she didn’t have a way out, everybody was going so she also went, although nobody knew how much she despised this other, required aspect of professional trips. The group madness when the calm, balanced, daytime listeners at various symposia mutated into night-time cowboys and tavern tarts, forever playing games fit for schoolchildren. Everyone was prettier, better and free on that intoxicating night, far from home: because it was all so wonderful, life was so short.

  Was it when that man had sat next to her, the one who was younger than her and wore strange glasses and a gold cross around his neck; she’d almost suffocated, would have run away immediately had she not been sitting by the wall. Seven people would have had to get up and, on top of that, it was still too early, too rude, not the done thing.

  She was worried he’d start flaunting his feathers like a peacock, that it would take a while before he turned to easier prey.

  That’s not what had happened. She’d been greatly mistaken. From the very beginning when he’d suggested they sit quietly for a while and talk, at least that way they’d be left in peace, wouldn’t have to get acquainted and shift from foot to foot, and he wasn’t planning to fall in and out of love between drinks because that was so irresponsible.

  That he had watched her that day, had immediately noticed she was so well-balanced, so different from all the others, different from her friends who were too heavily made-up and grateful for dim lighting.

  That this should be appreciated in today’s world when everything was for show, had no principles; that it was important to be well organised in both one’s professional and pers
onal life; that it wasn’t worth living on credit, literally and figuratively. That living for the moment was overrated.

  She’d started to melt. For a good couple of hours, she’d talked like she’d never done to any man before. Not that she had ever given anyone the opportunity. From time to time she caught the eye of one of her friends who smiled knowingly; she knew these smiles but that evening she didn’t care. He’d talked a lot, so had she – like never before.

  She’d even told him about her former name, about how silly it was. He understood her perfectly well, adding that in a country of Kasias and Asias it must have been difficult and didn’t suit everyone, certainly not somebody who, at any cost, didn’t want to be different, that he didn’t like loud women, preferred stability, peace, seriousness.

  They didn’t arrange to meet again, didn’t exchange numbers; that, after all, hadn’t been the assumption. She was the one who’d suggested she’d take the glasses to one of the night shelters in Poznań; she happened to come from Poznań and she’d certainly take those special spectacles with the Latin writing to the place he’d asked.

  He’d kissed her hand in gratitude. She loathed it, hadn’t reacted on time. Hadn’t regretted it.

  He hadn’t tried to injure her shoulder by yanking her hand up to his forehead and squashing his dribbling lips on it as usually was the case.

  She recalled those five seconds hundreds of times. He’d taken her hand so lightly, held it, bowed his entire body and looked at her – with gratitude, pleadingly, disarmingly? She’d just felt his warm breath and dry lips which perhaps had touched her hand or not – it was all the same; her whole body had become unhinged in a split second, a shudder, sweat, a pleasant spasm below her navel.