Polychrome

by Joanna Jodelka

  Transferred, propelled, packed tight.

  He waited a long time until he was sure it was dark night, that nobody would come in, that he was alone. Very slowly he opened his body.

  First, the head.

  First, he gently raised it a little then began to rotate. Very, very slowly.

  The numb muscles of his neck didn’t allow it to move faster ,as though surprised they’d once borne such a weight; they couldn’t get used to it.

  Then the neck.

  Then the fingers of one hand, then the other.

  Finally the entire rebellious rest, as though out of spite for having had to wait, now didn’t want to move. Had to be forced.

  Consistently, until he was erect, his posture proud.

  Last of all the eyelids; as it was his aching eyes wouldn’t see anything for the time being. They, too, needed time to get accustomed to themselves and the darkness.

  The squeaking of the confessional door as it opened contorted his face painfully. Another unfitting, hideous sound severing the silence.

  He conquered the obstacles of the scaffolding which leaned against the entrance to the chapel, pulled out an antiquated torch and noiselessly crossed towards the gate leading to his place of worship. Was it a coincidence that it was right opposite the altar, dripping with gold, intended for common folk?

  On the way, he turned the torchlight on the closed eyes of the bishop slumbering on a tomb. He always looked in that direction when walking on this side. The fatso, content with life, had managed to make himself comfortable after death, too, napping on his side not far from the altar. Always in an excellent mood – after life as after lunch.

  A while later, the man stopped again and turned the tiny light onto the eyes of a skull beautifully sculpted on a tombstone. At this, too, he liked to look – amusingly terrible as it hung in warning, which was probably why the skull had lost its lower jaw.

  He didn’t look around anymore; childhood foibles he could allow himself, but he didn’t want to become any more distracted.

  He arrived. Opened the heavy door and grating; knew it wasn’t locked.

  And once again he was in his sanctuary, his temple of ideas, just as in the past. Just as when he’d got lost, as when he hadn’t wanted to be found.

  Again he was the little boy who’d strayed from a father whom he’d so feared that he didn’t even shout.

  He hadn’t shouted when he’d seen the closed door, nor had he shouted later when he couldn’t open it for hours, eons.

  He’d just sat there in the chapel, staring and shivering. He shivered from the cold and from both fear that his father would find him and that he wouldn’t find him. He hadn’t known which he’d feared more.

  And he’d shone that torch of his to tame his loneliness.

  And they’d been with him, not looking at him, but they’d been there: the mighty ones and the less important.

  He knew them, knew what they meant and asked them, each one individually, each in its own way, each one for something different; and they’d listened. In the dim light of the torch and even when he’d turned it off.

  Although he didn’t like them as they were now, restored, refreshed, beautified anew. But it was them. Without the patina, without time on them, but them. He forgave them.

  He also knew that those in the window glyphs had disappeared forever. Earlier scribblings had needed to be revealed. He hadn’t been able to come to terms with it for a long time. He didn’t look in their direction, could recall them any time he wanted to anyway.

  The narrow passage in which he’d got lost had also been walled over. He didn’t care.

  Once again he cast his eyes around. With disgust he thought about the rubbish heap they were making of the place – an enormous candlestick, a baptismal font, an old pew serving no purpose, pennants awaiting a procession. Why right here?

  He turned the torchlight on one of the intruders. He might have expected it: an embroidered Our Lady and a huge eagle. Both wearing crowns of heart-shaped glass beads. As if either needed them. Stupid people. He gazed into the eyes of the Black Madonna. The garish beads didn’t suit Her; She knew it and it made Her sad. An eagle wearing a crown wouldn’t soar high either.

  After a while he stopped taking notice of them, just as the two enormous paintings stuck to the walls didn’t interest him.

  He looked only at the ceiling. At what was engraved on the walls and in his soul, which he’d never abandon again.

  He lay down on the stone floor, like the time when he’d no longer cared.

  Again he felt the cold penetrate his every cell.

  Again he was a child. Again he shone the light. Again he observed the only boy in the group; his name was Fortitude. And he, too, was looking back at him, dragging his burden, inviting him to climb the mountain.

  To achieve what he wanted to achieve. To pay homage to those who were most important, and to himself.

  To kill those who’d killed it in him.

  He’d lie like this until the morning then go out as he’d done then. And nobody would say anything to him.

  And he’d finish what wasn’t finished.

  And then all he’d hear would be boom boom… boom, boom boom… boom, boom… boom…

  rAIN, INsepArAble frIeNd of traffic jams, fell over the city. The journey Bartol made from home to work, day in day out, seemed three times longer. It hadn’t grown light yet; it looked as though someone had forgotten to switch the daylight on.

  He’d just left the house and was already feeling the need for a coffee - instantly. He was afraid he’d fall asleep. He’d already downed one but it must have been too instant. He drove into a petrol station. Drank another two espressos. It took him another five minutes to join the traffic; not many drivers were willing to show kindness to those slipping in from the minor road. The police officer didn’t know what to put this down to – a general stupor, poor visibility or a morning aversion to life on such a charming day?

  Everyone was moving a little more slowly, sluggishly, lifelessly. The drivers’ delayed reactions were, minute by minute, growing increasingly delayed.

  He’d done well to slip off. The coffee was starting to work, his eyelids had stopped drooping, his blood, quickened by the caffeine, had started to circulate faster.

  It had been on just a day like this that he’d had the stupidest of accidents. That day, too, his thinking had been slower. To his misfortune the reaction of the driver in front of him had been even slower. He thought he’d seen the other man move away, had just looked left, accelerated and halted with the noise of dented metal. He’d been in the car with his mother who’d stared at him in her unique way.

  The first time he’d seen her stare at him like that was when he was in Year One at primary school and had faked her signature on a note – using her first name. He hadn’t written the surname, hadn’t known how to write ‘r’. Only much later did he learn the meaning of the word pity.

  Bartol glanced at his watch. Half past seven; not really the right time, but he tried to call the Magda girl anyway. Surprisingly – after three rings – the same voice he’d heard on the machine five times the day before, replied.

  ‘Hello, I see a new number’s been trying to get through to me. How can I help you?’

  ‘Good morning. My name’s Maciej Bartol. I got your number from…’ He didn’t have time to finish.

  ‘Ah! Daniela! I take it I’m talking to her son. You’ve got a great mother. Good, if it’s about a translation I’ve got a lot of work on at the moment but I’ll come up with something. Danish and Swedish willingly; as for English, you could do better than me but I’ll help if needs be.’ Her cheerful voice didn’t in the least suit the general atmospheric conditions.

  ‘I’m not calling about a translation, or rather I am, in fact, but it’s more like an explanation or…’ He was getting lost; hadn’t thought he’d be justifying himself right from the start.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have pre-empted you. I’ll listen quie
tly. I’m too full of beans. Woke up to such a beautiful day, could be why.’

  He was getting annoyed. Didn’t know how to react to her words, couldn’t comment on the day because he’d hardly seen any of it through the rain pounding on his windscreen.

  ‘You’re interested in symbolism, I’m not expressing myself very well but… but I’ve got a couple of items… and a couple of Latin maxims… There’s a connection between them, there’s certainly a connection but I’m not sure what it is… And if you had a moment… well, perhaps not a moment… But if I could show you or tell you…’

  ‘Then tell me, I’ve got a bit of time now… And I’m in the right mood,’ she added brightly.

  ‘They’re probably quotations from the Bible.’ He was already regretting he’d phoned. ‘I’d like you to tell me what they mean or might signify…’ He heard himself stammer. He was furious, he had had no intention whatsoever of discussing it over the phone. Fortunately, this time she promptly interrupted.

  ‘All right, we’d better meet. And remember the same thing applies to the Bible as to people – you torture it long enough and it’ll tell you what you want to know. The context is important, the situation, place, time and so on. Drop in and see me at my place tomorrow and we’ll discuss what you’ve got in peace.’

  ‘Can’t we make it today? I’ll fit in with your schedule if…’

  ‘Sure, you can fit in with my schedule. I’m at Stary Rynek until three, then catching the train from Kraków to Poznań, so if you anticipate any difficulties I suggest we meet tomorrow. I can make it first thing in the morning if it’s that urgent.’

  ‘Good, nine o’clock okay?’ he asked, sounding totally resigned.

  ‘That certainly is first thing. But maybe that’s good, I wanted to get up early anyway. I’ll text you my address.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He didn’t have the courage to tell her she could drop in to see them. ‘Is it sunny in Kraków?’ he asked out of interest. Although her state of mind interested him more than the weather.

  ‘It certainly is. Not a single tiny ornamental cloud in the sky. See you tomorrow. Maybe I’ll bring the sunshine to Poznań with me. By the by, I’m pleased we’re going to meet. I’m curious to see what you look like. And please send my regards to your mother.’

  ‘I will. See you.’ He was still holding the receiver to his ear when he heard the click as she hung up. For some unknown reason, the only thought he focused on was that he’d have to iron the trousers which had been drying on the radiator for the past three days. As with his mother – one sentence and he’d have to get up half an hour earlier simply to satisfy somebody’s curiosity. He instinctively ruffled the hair over his forehead and glanced in the mirror. Now he knew why the two women liked each other.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s worth it!’ he consoled himself.

  Presently a text arrived with the address. A street in Wilga. He wondered what he’d find: an apartment left by granny in a low-rise communist block, a modern apartment bought on credit or a loft sniffed out in a tenement? In the end, he bet on the loft. He loathed stairs.

  It rained harder and harder, the cars moved even more slowly, people – huddled and drenched – ran from tram to tram. As he arrived at headquarters the rain died down a little.

  He parked almost at the same moment as Lentz. And what’s with you? Over-zealousness not pay? I was sure you’d arrived an hour ago to annoy everybody,’ Bartol said, climbing out of the car and stepping in a puddle.

  ‘Nah, I went to the doctor’s for a referral. My liver’s playing up, or pancreas, I don’t know.’ He broke off; his grimace indicated he’d just suffered an attack of one of the above-mentioned organs. A moment later he concluded: ‘He examined me and wrote out a referral in three months time… Can you imagine?’

  ‘I can indeed. Don’t worry, your wait may yet be rewarded,’ he replied with amusement.

  ‘Rewarded with what? Death? I went privately, had an ultrasound done of the entire abdominal cavity.’

  ‘And how is the cavity?’ Bartol tried to remain as serious as possible.

  ‘And what! Apparently it’s fine but who knows,’ he snapped.

  ‘Then go again in three months. It’s always best to check. Internal control of the health service won’t hurt.’

  ‘You’re right. Who knows what sort of equipment they had and what sort of a quack he was? Some medical student who’s going to use my pancreas to learn which mistakes to avoid.’ Lentz had started to regain his good mood.

  Bartol waved it aside and didn’t dare add that all Lentz had left to be examined was his head. He didn’t want Lentz to go on leave right then. He decided to change the subject.

  ‘I spoke to that granny who knew Mirosław Trzaska, but I didn’t get to have a word with the son. She’d fed him some sedatives. The poor guy was asleep, might even still be asleep. Either way, if he wakes up he’s to come here. He knew the murder victim, used to meet up with him, but was at a young people’s rosary circle at the time.’

  ‘That would even fit. Or they’re all providing an alibi for each other. The rest of the neighbours, if you mean youngsters, also said they’d gone through a few Hail Marys and about three episodes of a TV programme in the neighbouring village. I went to check, it seems to tally. I also thought that the boy might have given a lift to one of them and been alone for a while but that appears impossible, they all went together. That’s all,’ he concluded in a normal, matter-of-fact tone, no longer pained, as if he’d forgotten about his recent ailments.

  ‘I don’t think it’s anybody from there,’ said Bartol after a while. ‘No doubt we’ll learn some Latin like you complain. There was a maxim on the glasses, too. I don’t know what it means yet, but I’ll find out.’

  ‘I’m not sure it isn’t all too much for me. Ordinary human foibles, love, jealousy, alcohol and – to top them all – money, that I understand but this?’

  ‘You’re not the only one. When you’re done moaning, I’ll begin. Let’s hope this time it’s going to be different.’

  ‘Why? Because two corpses are better than one?’

  ‘Maybe so, maybe so,’ Bartol was unrelenting. ‘Lentz, we’re missing something, overlooking something. It’s happened once which doesn’t mean it’s going to happen again.’ He spoke as though trying to convince himself. ‘He’s leaving his signature. We can’t read it yet but it’s only a matter of time,’ he said as they approached the entrance. ‘We’ve got loads of work this time, masses of people to interrogate. I can’t believe we won’t find a thread to pull.’

  ‘You trying to fill me with optimism or yourself?’ asked Lentz, halting.

  ‘The both of us,’ assured Bartol with less conviction.

  Lentz’s expression hardly changed; he hadn’t expected an answer.

  ‘Then keep repeating it to me all day. Even mechanical work sometimes needs encouragement and there’s a tedious search ahead of us. Like digging for whatever it is in a frigging haystack or whatever, and I don’t feel all that good. What are you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ve lined up some interviews starting in the morning… ’ Bartol didn’t have time to finish.

  ‘I’m talking about the evening, if nothing happens, which is unlikely, but one never knows…’ Lentz added hesitantly.

  Bartol was completely disoriented, and not only because of the sudden change of subject. He couldn’t remember when they’d last met privately, if at all.

  ‘I’ve nothing planned, or didn’t anyway. If nothing happens, I’m open, why?’

  ‘It’s my birthday, my mother’s in hospital and I feel like going out for a drink. I’m extending an invitation to you, no commitment, of course. We’ll see how it goes tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ll see, but thanks, maybe it’ll work out,’ Bartol replied although he didn’t quite know what to think of it. Did Lentz simply want to go out, or was it the start of a concentrated assault on his internal organs so that they’d be at least slightly abused before his next examination
and wouldn’t bring him shame by their good health?

  Luckily, he didn’t have time to give it any more thought. Maćkowiak was already waiting for them. As soon as they entered Maćkowiak stopped dialling and replaced the receiver.

  ‘Hi. I’ve no energy left to make any more calls. It’s the same over and over again. My God, he was such a good man, but nobody knows anything about any family.’

  ‘Yet again. But that’s almost impossible.’ Bartol was surprised.

  ‘Those who worked with him have no idea. He spent Christmas and Easter at work, organised various Christmas Eve activities at Kaponier Roundabout and things like that… I’ll snoop around some more tomorrow but it’s all so strange. Is it still fallout from the war or are towns full of lonely people? I’ve no idea. I was at a wedding recently – I’ve got distant family in the east – and they had a small reception for a hundred and eighty people. The closest family apparently… And you should have seen the sausages and other home-cured meats.’ He lost himself in daydreams.

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Lentz in astonishment.

  ‘No, I’m not. I got some to take home with me. And was scared of saying anything to anyone at the wedding because when I called someone ‘Mr’ a couple of time all I heard was

  – "Mr, Mr, I’m your uncle." And here? Is there an epidemic or something?’

  ‘I can’t believe it either. Maybe in Mikulski’s case. They were pretty old and Mrs Mikulska, as far as I recall, was orphaned before the war, but this Trzaska guy, I don’t think so. How old was he, in fact?’ asked Bartol.

  ‘Sixty-four. You’re right, we’ve got to look. Maybe I’ll start with…’ He didn’t finish; Polek had burst into the room.

  ‘It’s peculiar, all this. A Poznań wino until he’s fifty and after fifty – the guardian angel of winos. A miracle.’

  ‘What miracle?’

  ‘What are you going on about?’ All were equally surprised.

  Looking at Polek, it was hard not to be amazed. And not only because he was so excited and waving his arms around; he looked somehow different, too. Bartol thought he’d treated his hair to some hair gel or something equally sticky which seemed absurd, bearing in mind how he’d made fun of Pilski lately. All in all, he looked peculiar.