Polychrome

by Joanna Jodelka

  At the beginning, before everything waned, when she’d just set all the details in order, she could recall that transitory feeling, that spasm of some sort of plexus of muscles and nerves about which she knew very little. Sometimes she had timidly imagined different endings, her hands unknowingly running over her body more boldly than usual. Then what?

  Shame, fear, the door slightly ajar, an unknown direction, and then what?

  Her suit, balanced in shape and colour, clung too closely to her body which, on top of it all, was covered in sweat. Shaking inside, she’d finished her drink, gone back to her room, then home.

  Both there and here she couldn’t sleep.

  The old method of tiring out her brain and body with work and sport didn’t work.

  She went to that night shelter; she’d always been helpful

  – within norms, without exaggeration. This time, too, she had promised.

  This time she even examined the eyesight of people she always avoided at a distance. But she couldn’t awaken any empathy in herself. She already knew them all; they, too, wanted to live differently, had not adapted, were dirtily colourful – street artists proud of themselves, in love with maxims and cheap wine. It’s not by chance that she’d chosen ophthalmology; at least people like these rarely visited her. They didn’t care whether their vision was clear or not.

  The man who worked there, the man for whom she’d brought those special frames with the Latin writing, was also strange, some sort of fanatical do-gooder. Overly pleasant at first, he didn’t even thank her. He stared like an idiot and disappeared somewhere, probably used to getting what he wanted. She’d formed an opinion about people like him and this had only confirmed it. She wasn’t going to be a do-gooder, unless it was by correspondence as usual; some Marysia or Mateuszek falls ill, one text message and that’s it.

  She tore her Achilles tendon playing squash, a common injury, especially if one plays to win against oneself.

  Two jobs at opposite ends of the city had to find a replacement. For a long time.

  In the end, she had to get off the train which never stopped. At a station in an open field.

  A month at home, with only herself, with her thoughts. For the first time in ages – she couldn’t remember how long – she began to write prescriptions for herself.

  At first, there wasn’t any sense in styling her hair, then shaving her legs, then getting out of bed.

  It looked as though April had decided not to fool around that year by offering both summer and winter; nor, as if to spite its place in the calendar, did it intend to blossom. There was neither sun nor snow; it was neither hot nor cold; nevertheless, everyone grumbled as usual – because it rained and the wind blew. Because there was no heatwave, because there was no frost, because it was nondescript and that wasn’t good either.

  ‘It can’t go on like this. It’s got to come to an end at some stage,’ Maciej Bartol repeated on his way to his mother’s house, a little unwittingly and a little senselessly yet over and over again. As if such talk could help. Besides, he was constantly saying and doing senseless things of late. He was sure of it, and not only because that was what his own mother maintained.

  Four months ago, he’d informed her that she was going to be a grandmother. He even remembered it had all gone pretty smoothly. He’d deluded himself that it was going to be the same as always, like when he was at school; she’d whinge a little then hug him like a son, like her child.

  He’d deluded himself. Not at all slowly, not at all smoothly, not at all so he could grow accustomed to it, he started to play second fiddle.

  He felt like a sad circus clown who has to appear in the interlude because such were the rules of the show, because he acted as background to the real artistes; and sad, well, that was just the make-up he wore, the part he was playing; deep down inside, after all, he was very happy – the show was so beautiful, such wonderful things were happening in that pregnant belly.

  He couldn’t understand it all. Once, she’d always – but always – been on his side, even up against the whole world. Once they’d been able to talk until the early hours of the morning like friends, about almost everything. And now?

  Right from the start, from their first meeting as a threesome, it was as though she’d ceased to understand him, as though she stood against him, had gone over to the side of the enemy.

  When he argued, for example, that he hadn’t expected she’d be such a wonderful mother-in-law, she responded with the avalanche that unfortunately she didn’t have the chance to experience being a mother-in-law – which was a great pity – but fortunately she’d see what it was like to be a grandmother. And these were two different matters, as if he didn’t know.

  To his timid statement that perhaps the child hadn’t been an accident, perhaps this was a way to get some sympathy, after all she so loathed manipulation – always spoke to the point, face to face – she said there was nothing to talk about, what had happened had happened, maybe there weren’t any accidents and, as it was, he ought to be pleased someone wanted to replicate his genes although if truth be told, if she were the girl she’d think twice about those genes, of course.

  And so on and so on.

  He couldn’t understand this convoluted logic. It was as though women’s logic was founded on an entirely different premise, on a theory of chaos unknown to him where only women could find their way, instinctively, without difficulty, with a mutual understanding of the twisted rules.

  The culminating point came when both women pressed the ultrasound photograph on him.

  Black and white dots on a slip of paper with the question: isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it touching?

  Absolutely wonderful, absolutely beautiful, he almost saw its teeth. He was a step away from disaster, from exploding. Luckily, this ended with nothing more than an idiotic expression on his face. Besides, they weren’t looking at him; he’d understand it all later, apparently.

  All he understood was that a month was not ‘later’. Another miracle: black and white dots on film, similar in content, except that it was easier for him to assume an idiotic expression; it was slowly growing on him.

  Now another outrage which couldn’t be delayed lay in wait

  – after which he’d no doubt suffer again. And right from the morning at that, when he’d wake up thirsty and hungover, his head abused with the drunken search for an answer to the question – when was this finally going to end?

  Very slowly he walked up the stairs, cast his eyes around, noticed that the neighbour had changed his front door, studied it for a while but still arrived at his destination. He rang and opened the door; he had a key. At the threshold, he decided to take a defensive stance in the face of… in the face of he knew not what, nor did he expect anything good, not these days.

  ‘Hello mum. I got soaked. I’m sure I’ll catch a cold,’ he said, coughing and sniffling. As he pulled off his damp jacket he recalled a time when something like this had always done the trick, had set the kettle boiling for hot tea, a blanket ready, and a warm word.

  ‘All right, I’ll make you some tea but first sit down. We’ve got to talk seriously.’

  The tone of her voice indicated that those times had come to an end.

  ‘All right, but I’m in a hurry.’ He thought that maybe this would work.

  ‘Then pretend you’re not. I’ve come to the conclusion that I have to talk to you. She doesn’t want to ask you but I think you ought to be at the delivery, no two ways about it!’ she said in a determined, raised voice.

  ‘If there are no two ways about it then why are you talking to me?’ Bartol thought he was either really coming down with the flu or just shaking all over as if he’d never stop. He’d never even taken anything like this into consideration. ‘Come on, I thought that watching the 3D ultrasound scan was the worst of it but no, you’ve got more goodies up your sleeve. How on earth do you imagine it all?’

  ‘How do I imagine it? I imagine it quite naturally. You’ve
no problem examining corpses ripped apart with their guts hanging out but you’re scared of birth?’

  ‘Mum, it’s not a question of being scared!’

  ‘Then what is it a question of? An allergy to life? Is it so hard for you to welcome your son into the world?’ she said in an offended tone, knowing she’d now pinned him down.

  ‘What? You already know it’s a boy?’ Bartol asked, collapsing into a chair, utterly stunned. It wasn’t even the fact that it was a boy; this something was slowly losing its impersonality. First, it had started to move and now it had decided to have a gender. It was too much information in one go; hard to evaluate.

  ‘We went to the doctor’s today, who said he thought he saw something dangling there so it’s probably going to be a boy. I’m pleased – I’ve obviously not had much success with you, so now I’ll really apply myself. I’d no idea you were such an emotionally neglected child.’

  ‘Mum, I’m pleased, too, and I had no idea either, but say what’s on your mind - clearly, so that somebody like your failure of a son can easily understand.’

  ‘I want you to be present at the birth. Which part of what I’m saying don’t you understand?’

  ‘Why is it so important to you?’

  ‘Because I know it is for her, too. Because I remember how frightened I was, how much I wanted your father to be with me. But times were different then. They weren’t that willing to let fathers into the hospital. So I’d prefer you to be with her, just in case something happens, or simply to be there. It’s always a bit easier when one’s not alone at difficult moments like these. She’s terribly frightened. Is it so hard for you to imagine?’ She ended her reasoning in a completely different tone of voice, calm, muted, a little sad, as if she no longer expected an answer.

  ‘All right, I’ll be there if you like.’ There was no point in fighting.

  ‘Good, that’s good. But I want you to be the one who wants to be there.’

  He decided he would never, but absolutely never, try to understand women, including Our Lady. It wasn’t enough that he’d agreed; he now had to believe that he’d thought of it himself – as usual.

  ‘Couldn’t you have said this normally right from the start, and not begun almost screaming and all that?’

  ‘I could, but why should I when this tactic proves so extremely effective? To be honest, I thought it would be harder. I’ll keep some of the arguments I didn’t use for later. Besides, I’ve already told her that of course you’ll be there. Because I think you’ve been well brought up, although sometimes there’s room for doubt. I’ve got a delicious cheesecake. Get changed, you’re completely soaked. Some of your old clothes are still there in the wardrobe.’

  She said this on her way to the kitchen so he didn’t see her face, but even her gait indicated she was laughing, triumphantly. He almost heard it.

  He decided to eat something proper as well, seeing as he was there. He knew she wasn’t going to harass him anymore; it looked as though she’d won everything she’d wanted that day. Luckily, she wasn’t in the habit of returning to something once it had been dealt with.

  ‘Have you got something more substantial, mum? I’m a bit hungry.’

  ‘Of course, I do. I’ve made some gołąbki for you, just like you like them – buckwheat and lots of cabbage. I’ll just heat them up.’

  Everything had been prepared, with a number of variations. If that hadn’t worked - then calmly and gently, and appetizingly. Was it possible to stand up against this? So what if it would have taken longer, if he’d resisted longer, explained his reasons, only to fall in uneven battle crushed by the force of arguments all leading to the same conclusion – that he was merely a man, unable to understand higher matters?

  It crossed his mind that there should be more women in the police force, special units which could pacify in various ways. He couldn’t remember whether there was any vodka left in his apartment but decided not to take the risk and drop into the night shop. He was sure it was going to hurt; he was going to get drunk alone – yet again. He didn’t look or wait for anyone who could understand him. Things would, after all, work out somehow; after all, he was going to have a son – admittedly with no tree and no house. But he’d started somewhere.

  He’d almost begun to feel sorry for himself when his work mobile resounded with the cabaret ringtone he thought suitable for the occasion, as though it, too, were mocking him.

  It was Lentz. Bartol couldn’t help but feel that something was being repeated, and a moment later knew why.

  ‘Hi, where are you?’

  ‘Ogrody. Has something happened?’

  ‘I heard you’re getting ready for some leave. Don’t, if you can help it. We’ve had a murder in Mościnno, twenty-five kilometres from Poznań. You take a left somewhere halfway to Buk, so the local police tell me. They said it’s all very strange. A quiet, single man, strangled. No signs of a break-in or burglary, he’s just – peacefully dead. You know what it reminds me of?’

  ‘I can guess. No point deliberating. I’ll be there in about forty minutes all going well. Are the rest there?’

  ‘They’re just being notified, I think you’re the first. I’ll see you then, bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  This time he wasn’t very happy with the timing; five minutes later and he’d have eaten in peace. The familiar aroma of gołąbki was wafting through the air. A couple of years ago, he wouldn’t have waited but now he thought pragmatically – a moment wouldn’t change anything. He had to eat anyway.

  ‘I’m in a terrible hurry, mum, so if you could…’

  ‘I didn’t expect otherwise. You can come now,’ she called from the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll eat and run. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘But of course!’

  ‘Mum…’

  ‘It’s all right now. I wasn’t intending to persuade you to do anything else today anyway, although there are still a couple of things we need to talk about.’

  ‘This time I didn’t expect otherwise. Can’t you tell me everything in one go or write it down on a piece of paper so I’ve got time to prepare myself, get everything in order?’

  ‘What on earth? Do you think I bought you in a shop or something? With ready instructions? Like a washing-machine

  – if I read them I’ll know straight away that if the machine doesn’t work it means it’s not plugged in. I heard you’re in a hurry, so eat or it’ll get cold.’

  He said no more and started to eat. Despite his hurry he tried to cut and separate the food carefully so that every morsel was perfect – the cabbage separate, the stuffing separate. She watched him. She’d stopped fighting long ago. Obviously that’s how it had to be: she’d take an hour wrapping everything only for him to unwrap it all on his plate. Like a little boy.

  The gołąbki were the same as ever; they carried the unique taste of security and well-being and despite the irregular circumstances, despite the constant squabbles recently, tasted the same – of peace, constancy, home and something else which couldn’t be put into words.

  He ate and stopped being angry at his mother as he watched her sulk, worry and wash the dishes. He shuddered as a thought occurred from nowhere: one day it might no longer be like this; along with her would disappear this one and only, unrepeatable, best combination in the world – cabbage, meat, buckwheat, spices and conversation, arguments – which, after every bite, after every word, spread certainty through his entire body that she was the only one who accepted everything he brought her, who loved him whatever happened although sometimes in her own way; who was always there for him. The very essence of being present.

  There must have been an odd expression on his face because she was gazing at him with a faintly indulgent smile and said, as though to a slightly thick but conscientious pupil: ‘Don’t look so worried, it’s not that terrible.’

  ‘What are you talking about, mum?’ he asked, a little edgy now.

  ‘I thought you were worrying about the birth, but what’
s on your mind?’

  ‘I’ve got to fly.’ He walked up to her, kissed her on the cheek and added: ‘I love you so much.’

  Now she was the one with an odd expression.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing, I just wanted you to know. I’ll call tomorrow, bye.’

  He swiftly slipped on his jacket and ran out of the apartment leaving his mother with a slightly worried look on her face. One might have thought she was analysing an opponent’s move in chess, wondering whether the latter had, indeed, done something peculiar or whether the strategy was premeditated.

  She’d been playing this game for the past thirty-odd years.

  It wasn’t easy to get to Mościnno. The village was behind another village which itself was out-of-the-way and separated from the main road by a forest. Strange it should even have a name, consisting as it did of barely a couple of scattered houses. Yet even here one could feel everything was about to change. It was dangerously close to the city, which had already sent its first scouts to divide up the land and change it forever. Or so announced the foundations of an immodestly huge future house which would forever shame the couple of dilapidated peasant buildings, once so proud of their enterprising owners who’d miraculously managed to mix their sweat in with the cement they’d procured in order to build identical blocks, unable and unwilling as they were to differ from others.

  Seeing several parked police cars, Maciej Bartol drove up to one of the houses.

  He showed his ID to some officers he didn’t know – probably from the local station – and learned that ‘the ones from Poznań’ were already inside. Slowly, he approached the outer staircase, a practical answer to an impractical ground floor half-sunken into the ground with the aim of deceiving administrators of the past era into believing it was a large cellar with windows, because who needed a bigger house? After all, everybody was supposed to be equal. He remembered his mother explaining many such peculiarities of the former system which it was difficult at times to imagine. He remembered a fair amount but not enough not to wonder how it was possible to live in a country of such absurdities. His mother didn’t miss the old days either, unlike many retired teachers of her age, even though she frequently said present-day reality was also absurd but at least offered a more attractive wrapping.