Polychrome

by Joanna Jodelka

  ‘I do, and what of it? It’s nothing to me whether you meet her now or not.’

  ‘Don’t bicker, mum. This is serious.’

  ‘All right, all right, I was only looking for the number. I’ll send you her card. Her name’s Magdalena Walichnowska. I’ve jotted somewhere here to call before twelve or after eight in the evening.’

  ‘Magdalena Walichnowska, that’s nice. To call after 8pm? Is she pretty at least?’

  ‘Now stop being silly and stop complicating matters. I’ve had enough for this year.’

  ‘Oh, come on! I was only joking. Just send me the number, okay?’

  ‘You know what? Go buy yourself another sense of humour because the one you’ve got must be some sort of reject, price reduced several times. Bye!’

  A moment later a message arrived with the number. He called immediately even though it was outside the stated hours. After five rings, the answer machine replied: ‘I must be doing something more interesting than taking calls. Record your message!’

  He didn’t intend to leave a message, decided he’d phone later.

  He put the phone aside, drove off and turned. He didn’t even manage to shift into third gear before he had to slow down. A large four-wheel drive appeared from behind the bend and came towards him at great speed, turned left and stopped before the freshly laid foundations of the future house. It must have braked like that only to make mud splatter as high as the roof, proof that it had been driven in the country.

  ‘Fine,’ he said to himself out loud. ‘They’ve come of their own accord. That’s one thing less to think about.’

  He thought he’d ask the new arrivals some preliminary questions about whether they’d seen anything or not. Before he saw them he heard a booming guffaw and a squeaky giggle.

  He looked at the couple climbing out of the car. The man must have been coming up to fifty, was quite fit and quite wrinkled; the woman was too young and wearing loud colours.

  No doubt, when buying the trousers which were too tight and the polo shirt a tiny bit too small, he hadn’t been able to resist admiring himself and had pulled his stomach in as much as he could; not more than a metre away from any mirror, however, he’d already forgotten to do so. She, less than twenty, bravely copied him and wore clothes which were too small.

  He was in something like an unfastened, coloured, leather jacket, she in a loose jacket, the top of which was two sizes smaller than the jumper beneath it, a jumper which didn’t cover her belly anyway.

  As he got out of the car, Bartol decided to fasten his own jacket. He found it cold so was all the more amused by the couple in love, who clearly couldn’t care less about the weather.

  As Bartol started to approach them, the man turned towards him with determination, stopped, drew himself up straight, assumed an offensive stance and attacked: ‘What do you want?’

  Bartol pulled out his ID, recited the usual formula and introduced himself. The offensive stance became defensive but not devoid of aggression.

  ‘Come about that cement I had stolen two days ago, have you?’

  ‘No, no I haven’t,’ Bartol replied calmly.

  ‘Of course not. As if the police cared!’

  ‘I think they do. Please report it to the local station, I’m from another department. Most probably between 4.00 and 6.00pm yesterday afternoon your neighbour, Mirosław Trzaska, in that house next to yours, was murdered. Perhaps you saw something?’

  The girl stopped smiling, the man, too, grew very serious but a moment later regained his vigour.

  ‘We were at a show yesterday and, anyway, we still live in Poznań, don’t we Niunia?’

  Niunia nodded and clung harder to the man’s arm. She was so tiny she could easily have been his younger daughter.

  ‘That can be proved, can it?’ Bartol asked just in case.

  ‘Of course it can. We weren’t alone. Wacek took some photographs. Remember, Niunia?’

  Niunia remembered.

  ‘Did you know Mirosław Trzaska?’

  ‘I don’t hang out with this rabble. Well, just look around.’

  Bartol didn’t intend to look around; he was finding the man more and more irritating.

  ‘All this is just spoiling my view.’ The man indicated his not-yet-existent windows.

  ‘They’ve all lived here a long time and you’re new, as it happens.’ Bartol started to enter into an unnecessary discussion.

  ‘So what? I’ve bought ten hectares here, and one for Niunia because she wants to plant some flowers, and I’m going to buy some more, and for Niunia, too. That bit with the forest next to it because she wants her own mushrooms. So there!’

  He glanced at Niunia, who pulled a sweet face as if she’d just been given a lollipop, and stuck out a bust which could not go unnoticed.

  ‘Well, I didn’t want to tell you. It was supposed to be a present from the Easter bunny,’ the man gushed. After a moment, he continued: ‘I don’t intend to get to know anybody here for the time being. I’ll wait. Admin says there’s no problem with building permission because the land’s poor and the farmers a load of crap. What do they have, you tell me? Five hectares. And they’re going to build a dual carriageway to Buk nearby. Down a bit and we’re here. I’m going to fence all this in and turn it into a private compound. You should buy something here yourself. They’re dumb peasants, selling for a pittance.’ His good mood was returning as he looked at Niunia’s beaming face.

  ‘I don’t intend to buy anything!’ replied Bartol, quite angry now, but not wanting to enter into any kind of conversation. ‘Please report to police headquarters in Poznań tomorrow between eleven and twelve o’clock.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘In order to make a statement.’

  ‘Niunia, too?’

  ‘Niunia, too.’ He tried not to raise his voice. ‘Here is my card.’

  He gave one first to the man – he was standing closest – and as the latter slipped it into his wallet, he gave one to the girl. Unwittingly, for a split second, his eyes rested on the breasts popping out of the girl’s low-cut top. Niunia seized the moment and stuck her breasts out even further, tilting her head to one side. Her expression indicated that the money wasn’t being wasted.

  Bartol, a little disconcerted at being caught sneaking a look, swiftly asked: ‘May I note down your details?’

  ‘But of course!’

  The man pulled out his driving licence, the girl her ID.

  ‘I told you to get yourself that licence,’ said the man to Niunia. He didn’t need to say this but probably did so just to hear the answer.

  ‘Why? You’re such a good driver and I’m scared of driving by myself anyway,’ she replied, gluing herself to his arm again.

  Bartol returned to his car. He finished noting down the couple’s details and once more glanced at the four-wheel drive. The man was phoning somebody; Niunia was gazing out at her new allotment by the forest. It seemed to Maciej as though she’d grown in stature; she was not sticking her breasts out so much but had raised her chin. He thought that, if Niunia waited a little, she’d grow into quite a loaded young lady. He glanced at her again. She was still staring at her future land; he was sure she was even licking her lips. She’s not as stupid as she makes out, he thought. She’ll wait.

  He said goodbye and decided to let Maćkowiak question the couple the second time around; he had no wish to see them again.

  He crossed the road to the house where the woman who’d reported the murder, lived. The gate wasn’t pulled-to and probably couldn’t be. Last year’s stalks beneath the windows didn’t resemble any garden plants. A path trodden across the grass and mud led to the front door which, in an old-fashioned, uninviting way, gave on to the yard.

  Then, in the yard, Bartol saw something which he wouldn’t have expected. Dozens of nearly new cages, large and small and all in perfectly good condition, served as aviaries for an enormous number of colourful birds. He’d have called them hens and roosters except that none of them r
esembled what he’d describe as poultry. Some of the hens had the appearance of small sheep, while the roosters looked like proud and stately eagles with nearly twenty-centimetre long feathers on their enormous talons.

  There were all sorts, colourful and beautiful. Bartol stared, fascinated by the madness parading in front of him. These follies which he was looking on could have served some ordinary purpose, but surely only by chance. What they manifested was the artistic flair of nature and man, who also liked to tamper.

  He fixed his eyes on a small, proud cockerel with an enormous, multi-coloured, glistening tail, which didn’t walk but strode like a Tyrannosaurus Rex and closely observed him. The bird wasn’t peacefully inclined, that was for sure. Bartol wasn’t scared of animals on the whole but he’d never open that particular cage.

  He’d have stood there staring for longer had he not heard a squeak and the loud grating of the bedecked front door against the ground.

  ‘ And where did you spring from?!’ First he heard the croaky voice, then saw a head appear from behind the door-frame.

  ‘Police. Mrs Regina Konopka?’ he asked, standing below. He didn’t even attempt to walk in her direction.

  ‘Then show me those, you know, those papers.’

  ‘Here you are.’ He pulled the ID from his pocket. He might just as well have pulled out a road sign, she wouldn’t have been able to see it in that light or at that distance, but it sufficed.

  ‘You’d better come in then.’ She opened the door wider.

  He climbed steps as dilapidated as the ones he’d climbed before. From that point Mrs Konopka marked the way forward. Meandering, she led him to a room downstairs. It couldn’t have been further from the front door but must have been the most presentable. In the meantime, he took a good look at her. The wrinkles etched into her face spoke a great deal; for example, that the last time she’d smiled whole-heartedly must have been during the ‘60s or ‘70s when a neighbour had broken her leg or some such incident.

  The house, too, was in character with its owner, who clearly didn’t like cleaning but did like to cover everything with colourful, poorly ironed tablecloths. The room in which they sat resembled all the others except in two things: in the place of honour stood an enormous television set also on a flowery tablecloth, and in the armchair – covered with a larger tablecloth - slept a young man.

  ‘He’s asleep. He’ll probably sleep for a long time because I gave him the pills those doctors of yours gave me. He’s upset about this Trzaska man,’ Regina declared with concern in her voice.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ Bartol was aghast. Taken aback at first, he quickly concluded that if the pills weren’t supposed to harm an elderly woman they certainly wouldn’t harm a young lad.

  ‘God never bestowed me with good health, I’m ill with blood pressure, don’t feel well,’ she said, putting on an ailing face.

  ‘Have you told a doctor? Shall I go and get you something? One of the medics might still be around. And what is your blood pressure, high or low?’

  ‘I’m ill with blood pressure!’ she informed in a tone which brooked no argument. ‘I don’t need any of their medicine,’ she added.

  ‘Fine.’ He’d no intention of arguing with her. Her blood pressure was clearly so awful it couldn’t be measured. ‘Let’s talk about how you found Mr Mirosław Trzaska and what was your relationship.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ she started yelling.

  It suddenly dawned on him that their conversation was beginning to sound like some cheap joke – and because of him.

  ‘Nothing. I’m only asking whether you knew him well.’

  ‘What do you mean, well? Normally! He was new. Bought the house from the Ławeckis. Always greeted me but didn’t go to church.’ She emphasised the last words plainly and firmly. ‘That’s people for you nowadays, no fear of God in them, like those opposite. Have you seen those tramps? When I think how I sold him that land by the road… My son didn’t want to,’ she admitted honestly, ‘but I promised him those hens. Bought myself that television and did right. Why should I watch the world in some tiny box? I went on pilgrimages, too. Prayed for my boy not to bring anything like her home, you saw, didn’t you?’

  Looking at her face he didn’t know whether she’d been to the sanctuary at Licheń or Łysa Góra, the supposed site of a witches’ coven, unless it was one of those combined pilgrimages, two in one for the balance.

  ‘So how did you guess that something had happened to Mr Trzaska?’

  ‘That mongrel howled all day and all night. Howled before, too, because why keep it indoors? But a bit too long this time. I went over, knocked and – nothing. So I brought the ladder which was leaning against the wall up against the window. A bit scared I was but…’

  ‘Couldn’t you have asked your son?’

  ‘Why should I? Besides, I didn’t like him going there. The man said all sorts of nonsense to him. Maybe he was some sort of pervert? How could I know what I was going to see through that window?’ she added reasonably.

  ‘Right, and what did you see through the window?’ He must have been finding everybody tiresome that day.

  ‘He was just sitting there, without moving. I ran home and phoned. It’s a good thing the phone was plugged in because that one there’ – she pointed to her son – ‘unplugs it at times. It didn’t bother him when there were those quiz shows where he knew the answers and we couldn’t phone, but now I know the answers and phone sometimes, he yells at me. No good he is, just like his father!’

  Bartol looked at the sleeping son and thought that even if the lad had wanted to smother his mother with a pillow he wouldn’t have succeeded: she was the kind who’d suck oxygen in through the feathers.

  But he had to ask even though he didn’t want to talk to her.

  ‘Can you tell me where you and your son were yesterday between four and six in the afternoon?’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, taking offence.

  ‘Please don’t upset yourself. It’s just procedure.’ ‘Procedure! What procedure?!’ she started to shout. It didn’t surprise him; he’d expected her to shout. ‘Please answer me,’ he asked as calmly as he could.

  ‘It was Hela’s turn yesterday,’ she said as though there were no need to explain anything.

  ‘Hela’s turn for what?’ he asked calmly again.

  ‘We meet every week at a different friend’s house.’

  ‘That was from when to when, and where was your son in the meantime?’

  ‘Where was he supposed to be? With me. We meet at four. He takes us there then brings us back. It must have lasted until eight yesterday or I might have got home even later. After that TV serial, you know, where all these people have got problems, the one…’

  ‘That means what time?’ He wasn’t interested in what problems people had.

  ‘The neighbour will know better because she wears a watch. I don’t like wearing one,’ she replied, offended by his lack of understanding for the misfortunes in episode 518.

  ‘Please tell your son to report to police headquarters between eleven and one tomorrow. I’ll leave you my business card. He can call if it doesn’t suit.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Procedure. Haven’t you seen that in this television over there?’

  ‘I have, too.’

  ‘Well, there you are. Please pass it on to him. And one more thing. Was anyone lurking around here recently? Any unknown cars drive past?’

  ‘Those punters are always hanging around, but apart from that I haven’t seen anything.’

  It took him a long time before he realised, in a roundabout way, that she didn’t mean punters but hunters.

  He glanced in sympathy at the lad again and said goodbye to Mrs Konopka. He really did feel tired. Her eyes followed him as she stood at the door. He didn’t stop by the birds; he didn’t want to provoke another discussion. She clearly did.

  He climbed into his car, pulled away and after two hundred metres, just beyond
the bend, drove off to the side and halted. He pushed his seat and leaned back. Lay down and tried to collect his thoughts. He couldn’t collect them.

  Nor did he manage to do so later, at home. Tired, he couldn’t fall asleep.

  Mikulski with his baroque splendour, Trzaska with his monastic rendition.

  The performance was on, he had no doubts about it, but so what if all he saw was the stage and didn’t even know where the wings were?

  Act II had just come to an end.

  Would there be a third? Would he be on time?

  The solution wasn’t simple, but it was there somewhere!

  Lurking. Waiting…

  hIddeN IN A coNfessIoNAl, curled up, invisible. Nobody’s going to guess he’s there. It won’t enter anybody’s head to check the chapel partially obscured by scaffolding. To open the little door, pull back the curtain, and see, in place of a confessor, the grown man curled up like a child, arms wrapped around his legs, head pressed to his knees.

  He’d picked the place well. He’d prepared himself well. He’d wait another hour, perhaps two – as many as was needed.

  It didn’t trouble him that his legs, arms and neck were slowly growing numb.

  He’d long grown to accept the stupefying pain which came and went according to a rhythm known only onto itself. It was better not to move. The smallest twitch, even of his little toe, passed on an impulse which dug red hot needles right into the middle of his head. He then knew he had to wait until the body stopped demanding action. Endure, calm down.

  Dig his eyes even deeper into the protruding bones of his knees so as to make fiery images once more appear beneath eyelids raging with pain.

  He exhaled slowly, inhaled even more slowly, not giving his lungs as much oxygen as they’d like; it was better this way.

  He heard his heart beating, almost like that other time.

  The same music. Three beats – boom boom… boom, and again boom boom… boom, like a song, like a dance.

  A divine rhythm insulted by the sound of his guts.

  The primitive gurgling of his stomach and intestines which dispassionately changed everything entering them into one and the same shit.