‘No, I don’t.’ It hadn’t occurred to him, nor had he thought it necessary.
‘I told you: details. What would you say if you saw the familiar sign: a cigarette with a line through it?’
He didn’t feel like guessing games or playing at being a smart arse, but answered: ‘No smoking.’
‘Good, and, for example, on a poster at a doctor’s surgery with a picture of a pair of lungs above it?’
‘Smoking’s hazardous to health.’
‘To all intents and purposes the same, yet communicating something different. In one case a forbidding order, in the other a warning. I couldn’t put it any more clearly. Was he naked? Was he lying, sitting?’
‘Naked and supine, covered only with the red cloth.’
‘Covered up, covered over or maybe only his privates were covered: which was it?’ she asked expectantly and calmly, although with a slightly know-it-all expression.
‘The material was draped over him at the hips,’ he started answering like a schoolboy in class or at one of his mother’s hearings.
‘Like in paintings, those found in churches?’
‘You could say that.’ They were probably misjudging each other.
‘And where was the writing?’ she asked a fraction more gently.
‘The lettering was half a centimetre tall, ran the length of the cloth and, at first glance, was almost imperceptible.’ He decided to anticipate her questions.
‘Like for the initiated. This is getting more and more interesting. I’d best start noting it down.’ She got up, walked over to the shelf and picked up a notebook and pen. ‘Not everything can be explained straight away, without material. Please bring a photo next time unless it’s strictly confidential.’
He hadn’t thought about a ‘next time’ even though she knew what she was talking about, knew what to ask, knew her stuff, no doubt, quite apart from her conceited tone. He needed someone like that. She was even pretty, average but pretty. Especially when the auburn strands of drying hair, which she kept brushing off her forehead, slipped out of the hair-clasp.
‘It’s not as confidential as all that,’ he said after a while. ‘I won’t be able to leave the photographs with you but I can certainly show you.’
‘No problem. I’m not going to put them up on my shelf. I’ll only sketch a copy.’ She smiled. ‘I understand that, for some reason, you’re looking for some symbolic connections. A dead body also holds many meanings, especially when it’s naked. Let’s say that’s the point and the cloth isn’t important, it’s only there to cover what’s unworthy and indecent.’ She glanced at Bartol. ‘Just don’t be offended,’ she added, laughing and squinting comically. ‘That’s not entirely my private opinion although I do agree that Nature could have come up with something a bit different, but never mind.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not offended. I like my unworthy parts, I’ve grown used to them.’ He smiled for the first time that day; she was laughing, too. She sat down on the sofa cross-legged and picked up her cup of coffee.
The atmosphere grew more relaxed.
‘Maybe it’ll be easier if we call each other by our first names. I know your mother – we’re on first name terms – but you and I are more or less the same age…’
‘Maciej.’ He smiled, extending his hand. He, too, had been finding it hard even though he didn’t generally like cutting the distance. This time, however, it had seemed a little forced.
‘I felt awkward suggesting it. After all, you are a detective, ordinary or not. Anyway, I’m Magda.’ She extended her hand. ‘Shame it’s under such circumstances but I’m pleased we’ve met. I was supposed to have dropped something off to you from Daniela at one point but didn’t have the time or something, I can’t remember anymore… But back to the point, seriously now. I promise. Nakedness, especially in a dead body, is associated with man returning to God the way he came, without any sign of having lived on this earth, the way he was born. It might not mean anything but it might, especially alongside a maxim like that. And as for the writing, it’s an ancient saying – no-one knows quite whose.’
‘Seneca’s, apparently,’ he broke in.
‘Apparently. It would be in character. Reflections like that can also be found in the Bible. It follows the principle I mentioned previously – that if we look we’ll find everything there. I’ve just remembered the Book of Ecclesiastes: "Anyone who is among the living has hope" and then there’s something like: "Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the grave, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom" – I can’t remember exactly but I’ll get it ready. Anyway, it’s vaguely something to do with hope. They were often found together, a corpse and words like that, or more simply such an inscription on a tombstone. Sometimes as a warning or admonition to the living, something like: anything might happen when the head’s full of dreams – that was the girls’ version – or the men’s, while the cards are being played.’
‘Thank you, you’ve explained it clearly. A bunch of dried sunflowers was found in the same house with a note attached to it: Expecto donec veniat. ‘
She said nothing for a long while.
‘Maybe you want some coffee? Because I'd like some more. You’ve presented me with some interesting puzzles. That’s good because I thought I was going to get rusty.’
‘I’ll have some, too, now.’
She made her way towards the kitchen and again set the espresso machine into motion. His eyes didn’t leave her. He liked the way she moved.
‘Can you dry sunflowers?’ she said after a while.
‘Yes, like everything else, I suppose, but they don’t look very nice after six months. That’s one of the reasons we think they might have some sort of significance, seeing as somebody kept them for so long, especially with the note. Although they’re not very symbolic, apparently.’
‘I see you’ve already done some homework. Well done. But they do appear in various images, generally associated with the rising sun, hope and so on. At a push they’d suit the words, I’ll check in a minute. I don’t know where I know it from but I think it’s Job who did the moaning.’
‘Yes, it’s from the Book of Job. Chapter 14, verse 14.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ She put her cup of coffee aside and started jotting.
‘Does it bring anything to mind?’ he asked.
‘No, or not very quickly. There are a lot of possibilities. One could concoct rebuses, puzzles, stick things together in various ways. I have to think all this over quietly. I need more facts.’
‘Okay, I’ll bring the photographs and more information about the circumstances in which all this took place. But that’s not all. There was another murder yesterday.’
Her eyebrows shot up, eyes opened wide; she froze with that expression for a long while. Then nervously brushed aside her hair, got up from the sofa and started circling the room.
It seemed to Bartol she was behaving just like him but double-quick. First, surprise then, a nervous about turn.
‘This isn’t funny,’ she said after a while. ‘In fact, it wasn’t funny from the start, but I approached it like a puzzle not bearing in mind what had actually happened. I’m never going to grow up, never going to get any wiser, there’s nothing but nonsense in my head! Isn’t there a shred of empathy in me? These aren’t drawings on a wall! A man has died!’ She was talking to herself, her voice growing louder and louder. ‘And now another one, and more dicta. There has to be, that’s why you’re here. What were they?’
‘Speculator adstad de sui, on the frame of a pair of glasses.’
‘I’m not going to make up what it means, I don’t know right now. A literal translation’s not going to give us anything. It could be an abbreviation of something. I need time. I’ll put all my work aside today and look up everything I can. The yogurts can wait.’
‘I didn’t want to spoil your day too much. I’m sorry.’
‘Rubbish. Besides, it’s my h
obby. I search for information about various products in a number of foreign language newspapers for money. Open source intelligence, nothing interesting, it can wait. What am I saying, not it can wait, it has to wait. You know why? You know what I think? I don’t know whether I’ve seen too many films or it’s your expression, but two’s not enough.’
‘What are you thinking?’ He was afraid of her answer.
‘The numeral two also means something of course – development, for example, equilibrium, man and woman or, more ominously, light and shadow, irreconcilable opposites and so on. But it isn’t a divine number; the divine number’s three. The most beautiful of the primaries. Three is greatness, light, holiness. The beginning, middle, end for the Pythagoreans; the Trinity for Christians. In other words, for everybody it signifies perfection. I could talk about it for hours. I might be oversensitive but I can’t stop thinking otherwise.’
‘It’s a bit unprofessional, but I couldn’t help thinking I was witnessing some sort of drama either.’
‘Exactly, a play in three acts. To put it grandiloquently, these are ominous premonitions. You know what, there’s no time. This somebody has it all planned out to the last detail and is following a script. He’s written it himself and, unlike us, knows how it goes. With premeditation, as I think you put it. How much time elapsed between the first murder and the second?’
‘Three months, more or less.’
‘So maybe we’ve got a bit of time still.’
She approached the wall of books, gazed at it for a long time then said: ‘That’s probably not enough. I’ll have to go out today, after all. Let’s meet tonight. Please bring the photographs.’
‘All right,’ he answered, totally compliant as he got up. ‘What time can I call?’ he added, now a little more spitefully.
‘Whenever you like. If the worst comes to the worst you can always leave a message. After all, I could be in the loo. I don’t know and don’t want to know how other people resolve the problem, but I don’t go around carrying the phone around my neck. I promise I’ll call back.’
He made towards the hallway. As he pulled on his jacket, he glanced at Magda. Perhaps she was even pretty, perhaps even more than averagely so. Opening the door, he was the first to speak: ‘Good, I’ll see you soon. I wish you success.’
‘Thank you. Not very romantic circumstances but it’s nice meeting you.’
‘You too.’
She leaned towards him but stopped mid-way.
‘We don’t know each other all that well, sorry.’ She extended her hand.
‘Not at all.’ He squeezed her hand, a little too hard; she was very slender.
He walked down the stairs slowly but still had to halt on the half-landing. As always, when angry with himself. He started staring at the floor.
Who’d put lino on old, wooden stairs instead of restoring them? When were people in this country going to start respecting what there was left? Why didn’t anyone think about it?
Why did it always have to be like this? Why did it always turn out that she had to be right, that sooner or later it turned out that he should have listened to her? Why did even her convoluted grumbling always make sense? After all, he could have dropped in on the girl and talked to her earlier, perhaps he’d have got further, known more? Where did he get this narrow mentality from? Who was he trying to spite?
But maybe that’s not what it was about; maybe he could have returned that damned dictionary and everything would have turned out differently?
Now what? He wasn’t going to compete with that boy and besides, he was going to be a father soon.
For a change, he ran down the rest of the stairs two at a time. He no longer cared about the way they looked. He wanted to run away without really knowing from what.
He nearly knocked over an old woman who passed him in the doorway.
The mist had started to lift. You could almost see it rising and dispersing as it tried to reach clouds which hung obligingly low as they consented to hide the city from the sun. The weather was still inclement. It was best not to expose oneself to it. Bleak thoughts, making the most of the darkness and damp, clung to each other more readily than usual. Cars moved along even more sluggishly as though, apart from eternally red lights, they increasingly felt the resistance of the air, heavy with grey dampness.
Halfway between Wierzbięcice in Wilga and the station, Bartol stopped thinking about anything whatsoever. His head began to ache pitilessly: because of the wavering air pressure, diagnosed the radio cheerfully. He agreed with the diagnosis and found some painkillers in his glove compartment. Luckily, he arrived at headquarters relatively quickly or as quickly as it took for the pain to ease off. He didn’t know what to put it down to – the pill, which he rarely took, or the building which always acted as a remedy for his own problems.
There, he heard that a certain Franciszek Konopka was already waiting for him. For a moment, he couldn’t recall any Franciszek. Until Mrs Regina Konopka suddenly appeared in front of his eyes and, of course, Franciszek. Bartol wondered how long he’d been waiting. He ran up the stairs, jostling somebody again; he didn’t know whom he apologised to.
‘Good morning. Maciej Bartol.’ Out of breath, he greeted the boy already seated in the interview room. ‘Sorry I’m late but I’m glad to see you’re awake,’ he added in a friendly tone as he removed his jacket.
‘Good morning,’ the boy merely muttered back, and lowered his head again.
Bartol wondered when Franciszek had developed this reaction of turning in on himself. Was it before the huge pimples had appeared on his face, followed by the scars which served as a reminder of badly treated acne?
He thought about himself, about his skin. What would have happened if he hadn’t spent many humiliating hours at the beautician’s? He remembered how he’d tried to flee the first time; he hadn’t got very far. His mother had been in the waiting room. At the time, he’d thought she was spying on him; he hadn’t borne in mind the fact that she knew him very well, since he was born.
He hung up his jacket and started questioning the boy.
‘You know what’s happened. Can you tell me any more about Mirosław Trzaska? Apparently you were friends?’
‘I wanted to be but my mother wouldn’t let me.’
‘Why not?’ He wasn’t surprised.
‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled.
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ he thought. Franciszek was young, with complexes; he probably hadn’t dared bring ‘one of those’ home, or any other. That’s probably why he went to bed with the hens. He decided to start with that.
‘I was looking at your hens yesterday. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything like it. They’re beautiful. I especially couldn’t tear my eyes away from the small cockerel. He looked aggressive.’
‘Did he?’ Franciszek suddenly came to life. ‘It’s a Japanese fighting breed. He was hard to get hold of. It was entirely by chance. The rest are crested and green-legged hens. It was Mirek’s favourite, too, that cockerel. Valour and beauty rolled into one!’
‘True. There was something of the Uhlan about him. What else did he say?’ Bartol already knew he’d knocked one wall down, not to say the henhouse.
‘He justified my mother saying that, in her own way, she was worried. I was a late child, you know, my older brother died on a motorbike when I was little. But he also said I ought to do something with my life, become more independent, get out of the house a bit, that I ought to go to school again. I was good at technical college but my mother got ill after my father died. I only had a year left but somehow didn’t finish.’
Bartol felt sure she’d fallen ill with blood pressure.
‘He nearly convinced me once,’ Franciszek continued of his own accord, ‘and I told my mother. She fell into such a rage we had to call an ambulance. She screamed saying I wanted to leave her, send her to her grave just like my father did. Although, you know, he’d died earlier. She didn’t let me visit him later, kicked up te
rrible rows, screamed he must be some sort of a pervert, that they were everywhere. I preferred not to listen so I let it go. Besides, he hadn’t been quite himself recently, since his dog went missing. Harpsichord was found three days later but Mirek seemed out of sorts.’
‘The dog was called Harpsichord?’ laughed Bartol.
‘Good, isn’t it? He’d found it when it was a puppy. It had whined so much which is why he called it that, so he told me. He adored the dog.’
‘When did you last see Mr Trzaska?’ Bartol asked as a formality.
‘Three days ago. I met him in a shop. We even had a pretty long conversation. He said he’d thought of a strategy.’ He started smiling to himself. ‘I was to tell my mother the European Union pays more per hectare if you pass your final school exams. She’d have believed it too, because she thinks people from the Union are stupid enough for that sort of thing, and since they’re handing out money anyway they might hand out some more. It wouldn’t have been a complete lie because I might have learned something else and got something out of it. She’s now ready to sell all the land.’ He grew pensive. ‘And then? We agreed I’d get all the papers ready and he’d sort it out because I don’t really know where to go. I’ve lost the knack of town.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have done it? Did Mr Trzaska have any enemies?’
‘Mirek! Sorry, Mr Trzaska. He said he hated any titles to his name. He told me to call him that himself.’ He reflected. ‘Enemies, no. Nor burglars – because he didn’t have anything.’
Something seemed wrong to Bartol. Konopka was confirming everything Trzaska’s colleagues at work and a platoon of homeless people had said about him. But it wasn’t in character with the Trzaska of fifteen years ago and with what Polek had discovered.
‘Did Mr Mirosław have any family?’
‘Everybody’s got some sort of family.’ Franciszek pondered and after a while added: ‘But Mirek never spoke about it. He lived here alone and hardly anybody visited him. He once said that you can start everything in life anew, that you can become an entirely new person. And maybe he’d started anew but I didn’t ask why he’d finished with his old life. That’s how it looked to me anyway. There must have been an important reason. Everybody’s got problems, maybe he had big problems.’
Polychrome Page 14