‘This Trzaska…’ Polek carried on breathlessly. ‘Over half a century of tiny offences then suddenly that’s it. Besides, I’d have thought that knocking it back for so long, his brain would have been totally pickled but this guy here sobers up and sends out emails. You tell me if that isn’t a miracle? I even paid a visit to his girlfriend from the wino days.’
If it were possible to look any more surprised, they did so now. Bartol didn’t ask when Polek had managed to do all this but simply stammered out:
‘And?’
‘And! I’m scared I’m going to have nightmares about her. She’s still living on Staszic Street and has got a boyfriend now. They’d make a perfect pair of generators if you could draw energy from alcohol.’ Polek glanced at his audience and added with a smile: ‘She was surprised, too. Mirosław, whom everyone called Lalek and whom, in a tide of affection, she’d briefly registered at her place, had been dead for some time in her books. At least that’s what she thought. Love had blossomed when he’d started working as a gravedigger but withered when he lost that job, too, because of his drinking. Which isn’t easy considering drink used to be a way into that line of business. You know what it’s like, you get sad, cold. Anyway, that was some fifteen years ago, she said. She had to throw him out because he drank without sharing when he had the job and she doesn’t like that, not nice. She later heard that he was living at a station, first in Poznań then Warszawa. Some friend working on the railways had apparently seen him and apparently he’d become a real outand-out drunkard. It’s all in that vein. So if that’s not a miracle, what is? Eight years of training, eight hectolitres of moonshine, the life of a vagabond and then a little house in the country and a successful steward? Idyllic, don’t you think?’
‘Olaf, are we talking about the same person?’ Bartol finally asked.
‘I wasn’t the one who wrote out the domicile registration. There’s a photograph – must be thirty years old – in his old ID and a current one in his new ID, personal details are the same. That hideous creature on Staszic Street must have held on to that apartment since just after the war, or so it seems. She remembered Lalek; his age and height tally. His appearance, judging by the way she looks, must have revived a bit but we can summon her, get her to identify him if she can.’
‘She’ll have to be summoned. I don’t like it. Did you talk to anyone else who might have known him earlier?’ asked Maćkowiak.
‘No, she didn’t know much about the guy she admitted to have registered – as an exception – but then it’s open house at her place, for drinks. As it is, it’s a good thing she remembers him at all. All her days seem to merge into one.’ Then he added: ‘There must have been something about him.’
Nobody said a word. Polek, as though making the most of the opportunity, quickly stood up.
‘There’s no point in what-ifs. We’ve got to check the wino link. I’ll take care of it.’ Saying this, he looked at himself in the window, pulled in his stomach and stuck out his pectoral muscles which, with a little kindness, could be called muscles. ‘Maybe I’ll find out some more. And keep an eye on that Pilski. I don’t like characters in pink tie uniform. Did I tell you what I heard yesterday?’
‘No.’
‘I know something about people. I was walking past the boss’s room, the door was ajar, and I heard him talking with Pilski. What a character. That dandy…’
‘Olaf, were you eavesdropping at his door?’ Bartol laughed.
‘I wasn’t eavesdropping, I was just passing by, very slowly passing by,’ replied Polek, smoothing down his already smooth hair. ‘That dandy must have been trying to facilitate something but our dear boss’s deep bass fortunately rang out that, if there were any suspicions that it could be the same murderer, then all the more reason for him not to change anything. The choir’s not wasted on him.’
‘What choir and change what?’ asked Lentz.
‘The police choir, didn’t you know we had one? And I don’t know what the anything he’s not going to change is. I was only passing by.’ With an offended, haughty expression he looked at Bartol.
‘We’ll know sooner or later,’ riposted Bartol.
‘We’ll know it’s not without reason I’ve got such strong feelings about the shit. Bye.’
‘Bye,’ they replied simultaneously, their eyes turned towards Polek as he left. He didn’t honour them with a glance.
‘No point in what-ifs: for the time being we’ll organise what we’ve got.’
Lentz and Maćkowiak nodded with vigour worthy of the weather outside.
The day brought nothing. Nothing but mud from an enormous puddle which Bartol brought into the house on his shoes. He’d parked in mud because that was the only space available. The alternative was fifty metres further down and he didn’t opt for it. He felt tired, very tired, as usual after a load of paperwork and numerous talks with various people. Talks, all of which progressed in a similar fashion, like the drops of rain at the window which he watched as he reiterated the same questions.
He poured himself a glass of vodka, added water since that was all he had to hand. Tasted it. It was sufficiently strong and didn’t taste too bad. He had enough vodka and only a little water but that didn’t worry him too much. He could always leave a glass outdoors and it would fill up. He sat in the armchair and put his feet up on the coffee table. Started persuading himself that he’d only cover himself with a blanket for ten minutes then go to bed.
He was soon persuaded and slept there until morning. The glass was nearly full. ‘Did you see that man? When did he manage to slip in, it’s only morning? The cathedral’s just opened. Maybe he’s a thief or something.'
‘Nonsense. You shouldn’t watch so much television. A thief
with a huge camera around his neck! He’s some kind of tourist.’ ‘Tourist? At this time of day? Look at him, he’s a bit odd, as
if there’s something wrong with him.’
‘I can’t sleep recently either. He’s a tourist, I tell you. Besides,
how can you tell with his face hidden by that camera? He’s
taking a photograph of that toothless skull, like all the others.
Go and ask him if you like, maybe he’ll answer in some other
language. You can have a chat.’
The man they were discussing tore his eyes away from his
camera and smiled kind-heartedly at the nice ladies. They briskly turned their heads away; they obviously didn’t
believe they were nice.
‘I told you he’s a tourist. They laugh at any old thing.’ ‘Aha.’
He arrived late after all. At Wilga Street, Magda’s address. No more than twenty minutes, but still. Not because he’d overslept, not because he’d spilt coffee on his newly pressed trousers. None of these things. Of a thousand stupid reasons he chose what must have been the stupidest. For a moment he thought he’d seen Malina in one of the overtaking cars. He hadn’t seen her for a good eighteen months. He missed her, perhaps not like before, perhaps a little less, but enough to change lanes and follow the car. Why? In order to catch a glimpse of her, see what she looked like, whether she was happy. Perhaps she wasn’t; perhaps, like him, she regretted things had turned out the way they had, that there was no going back. Perhaps just so, out of curiosity.
Despite the mist and the slippery road he finally caught up with the car. It hadn’t been her; it hadn’t even looked like her. It had cost him a good half hour. For half of Głogowska Street he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t accelerate because the entire right lane was kept for delivery vans unloading all sorts of goods, couldn’t turn because turning was forbidden; he could do nothing but rage, and rage he did, first at everything, only then at himself.
At a standstill in the traffic jam on Dworcowy Bridge – which he could have avoided before – he called Maćkowiak. He was counting on his having found something out about the spectacles; last night, he was supposed to have visited the shelter where Trzaska had worked. Sad to say, Mać
kowiak hadn’t discovered much. As he might maliciously have expected, nobody remembered where those unfortunate glasses had come from. That is, some people did recall a woman optician bringing the glasses as a gift from an unidentified optical company, but she’d been so nondescript that nobody remembered her well. She’d even made out two prescriptions, but one of the men had lost his and the other had lost himself. He’d fallen in love, apparently, and been drinking out of love for a week; since he was in love from morning until night he drank from morning until night and since he loved to the point of oblivion, the chances of finding the prescription were poor.
The day had started badly.
To confirm this Bartol drove up to the tenement on Wilga Street. He’d got it right. It was almost the tallest in the street; furthermore, he was convinced the apartment was going to be on the top floor. It was. Even higher than the top floor, he thought, when he saw narrow stairs leading to what wasn’t even a loft but a simple attic.
When the door opened, he was struck dumb.
He’d formed some sort of opinion of what he’d come up against. Since his own mother had hatched plans for them to meet – and not only once if he remembered correctly – the girl most likely had to be single. As for that, his mother knew how to conduct inquiries. The girl had also to be more or less his age. But here, in front of him, loomed a twentysomething young man, taller than Bartol by a head, in jeans and with a naked torso which could have belonged to a swimmer representing Poland.
‘Hi, it’s a good thing you’re late.’ The boy winked knowingly. ‘Please, come in,’ he added and pulled himself up even straighter.
Bartol still hadn’t seen Magda but already knew any theory about a brother could be ruled out.
The day had started badly.
A moment later, from behind the boy’s massive back appeared a small woman. He didn’t see her face; she had dishevelled, wet hair, an odd shirt and an angry expression.
‘Good morning,’ she said over the young man’s shoulder and, craning her head, addressed him: ‘Didn’t I by any chance say you weren’t supposed to be here by now? I’m sorry, I think the alarm clock didn’t go off,’ she said to Bartol gently, then turned to the boy again: ‘But let’s not worry about that, it could still go off, couldn’t it?!’
As she uttered the last sentence, Bartol had the impression she grew ten centimetres taller while the boy shrunk twenty.
‘I only opened the door.’
‘The point is you were supposed to have closed it a long time ago, from the outside. Who let you turn off the alarm? Get dressed and good bye.’
‘I thought I’d wait and we’d have breakfast together.’
‘You can have it with mummy, off you go, because…’ She didn’t have to finish; the boy was already in another room. ‘I apologise once again. Please, do come in. Sit down and give me a minute.’
‘Good morning’ was all Bartol managed to say.
Taking off his jacket, he not only regretted having phoned, he regretted having come at all. In a blue sweater, after a long time scrutinising himself in the mirror. He may not have ironed the whole shirt but certainly the collar. And here? A naked athlete and a girl with wet hair. He was still in the hallway when the nearly two-metre boy made ready to leave. The boy tried to dally a little longer but the young woman stood in front of him; he didn’t try too hard.
‘All right, al lright, so now we can say goodbye,’ she said opening the front door wide.
‘I’ll call?’ he neither asked nor stated, in a low voice.
‘Call,’ she replied, a little more gently.
‘It was super today and…’ he added out loud. Bartol had no illusions; this, he was supposed to hear.
‘I’ve changed my mind, don’t call.’ She didn’t give the lad a chance to finish and slammed the door.
That’s just the reaction Bartol could have foreseen. He knew the young man shouldn’t have answered back but he had; now he wouldn’t have it easy. He knew because of his own experience even though, observing from the side, he was a bit taken aback by the whole event.
‘I’m sorry about the scene.’ She apologised but didn’t look in the least embarrassed. ‘As Aristotle said: all animals tend to be sad after intercourse but a rooster crows.’
‘He’s young,’ Bartol said very bewildered. He didn’t know whether he was stating a fact or trying to be spiteful.
‘I know, I know,’ she answered quite naturally. ‘Still too much sex in sex. I promised myself in the New Year: nobody under thirty, and what do we have?’ she broke off, looking at Bartol. Bartol didn’t know what they had. ‘April!’ she added. ‘Manual-steering and being an all-knowing authority is all well and good, but for how long?’ Bartol had no idea for how long. ‘For a moment,’ again she didn’t fail to let him know.
‘Looks like he’s counting on more than a moment.’ He didn’t know why he was joining in the discussion or defending the youngster. Male solidarity?
‘Oh, I know, he’s probably still got the watch from his first Holy Communion, so time doesn’t fly by for him in the same way, but what can you talk about in the long run with a horny student?’
Bartol didn’t know how to answer and didn’t want to know what they talked about in the short run. He didn’t say anything. He merely wondered whether or not to tell his mother all this; he’d like to have seen her face.
‘I’m sorry, this conversation’s totally unnecessary. Please sit down. What can I get you to drink?’
‘Some water.’ He surprised himself. Usually, nearly always, regardless of the time of day, he asked for coffee. He probably wanted to compose himself; besides, he didn’t intend to stay long. She handed him a large green glass full of water, excused herself for a moment and went to the bathroom.
He was left waiting much longer than a moment, so began to look around. To his amazement, he had to admit the climb would be worth it, even on a daily basis.
Simple shapes, simple colours. Height and airiness.
Thick ceiling beams and wooden columns naturally delineated the open space without the appearance of doing so. He studied and admired them a long time. They managed to support the roof and give the entire apartment a friendly atmosphere, as if in gratitude that someone had appreciated and smoothed them down.
He gazed at all this with a touch of envy. Next to this, his own apartment looked like a crammed matchbox which little people had stuffed with tiny pieces of junk they’d found here and there.
Here everything was different. Everything was modern, angular, spacious and still too small to dominate the space.
Well planned out.
Some tiny treasures collected during her life or from her travels, but without unnecessary ornaments except, perhaps, a little mole – from a Czech fairy tale – against a background of urban chimneys. Bartol wasn’t well up on contemporary art but liked the painting. He didn’t know why.
It would probably have been too peaceful here if it weren’t for the enormous triangular alcove stretching across an entire wall and filled with books. Tightly filled, up to the last centimetre. Books standing, lying, at a diagonal. Faded spines of old fascinations interspersed with loud covers of new ones, without rule or regulation.
His eyes fixed on the balcony door. He hadn’t expected a balcony in this attic but there was one, and a large one at that
– not even a balcony, a terrace.
The view, too, was amazing and this at the beginning of April, on a rainy day. Roofs of the surrounding tenements, little balconies and the tower of the church of Mary the Queen with its enormous clock. Now, in the faint mist, all this looked wondrous, even without it being summer or night.
Beautiful, quite large trees grew in huge flowerpots.
‘They’re going to flower. Cherry trees.’ He’d been staring and hadn’t noticed her standing behind him. ‘Only another month and they’ll be covered in pink flowers. I can’t wait. Perhaps I’ll wizen up by then, who knows?’
He turned. He could f
orget his first impression.
Her still-wet hair didn’t bother him anymore; she’d pinned it back on the top of her head in some intricate way which, combined with her upturned nose as though from a Japanese anime, looked rather amusing. She was slim, shapely and in a pretty cool outfit. A few minutes ago he almost hadn’t known what that hunk had been doing here; now he didn’t want to know.
‘All right, go on.’ She was the first to speak. ‘But please remember what I said yesterday: as many details as possible. You’re either not going to squeeze anything out of the text itself, or you’ll squeeze out whatever you want. And surely that’s not what this is all about. We need a background to the crime.’
‘How do you know a crime’s involved?’
‘Your mother told me her son was a detective. Not one from films but a real one, an ordinary one.’
He didn’t want to ask what that was supposed to mean. Why not ‘one of those’?
‘So we’ve got the preliminaries out of the way,’ he said without enthusiasm.
‘Indeed we have. I’m all ears.’
They sat on the sofa. He took a while gathering his thoughts without taking his eyes off some small orange cups, as though they might help him. He didn’t want to look at her. For the second time he caught himself trying to read the writing on the t-shirt she’d slipped on. He couldn’t decipher it; maybe because she wasn’t wearing a bra or maybe because the lettering was too small?
‘A man was murdered in January.’ He tried to concentrate but without success. ‘Next to him were… well, maybe not next to him… but anyway, there were some Latin maxims, maybe it was a coincidence… but I don’t think so, apart from that we have to check…’ He heard himself getting muddled but, fortunately, she didn’t interrupt him and listened carefully. ‘One was on a red piece of cloth which was partially covering him. It had Dum spiro spero embroidered on it – meaning, as long as there’s life, there’s hope.’
‘I know what it means. Do you have a photo of the man?’
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