Bartol got up and started to pace around the room nervously. Finally, he walked up to the window, stared out without seeing.
He was furious with himself; why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? What the young man had said was obvious, after all. Hence this altruism, hence this asceticism. He’d experienced something in life and was now doing penance. What for? Why under a different name? He had to find out as soon as possible. There wasn’t any point in looking for Mirosław Trzaska’s family, Mirosław Trzaska’s friends, Mirosław Trzaska himself because they’d probably never be found. They had to look for someone who knew the man before he became Mirosław Trzaska. And right away. Maybe something connected the real one to Mikulski. Yes, that would be the clue he was looking for; of that he was certain.
He turned and looked at Franciszek Konopka, who’d lowered his head again. Again, he felt sorry for the boy. He was going to carry on driving his mother and her friends to rosary-TV parties from Thursday to Thursday. And curl in on himself even more. All that would be left would be pimples, a bad bite and hens who don’t give a hoot.
He reflected for a while, and suddenly the solution came all by itself. There was always a solution, so his mother had taught him. Now it could prove true.
‘How old are you, Franciszek?’
‘Twenty-three,’ the young man replied in surprise.
‘Trzaska was right, start studying.’ Bartol purposely addressed the lad by his first name so as to encourage him. ‘Pass your exams, then study zoology or some other –ology. Get some air.’ He saw the boy come to life, only to drop his head again a moment later.
‘I wouldn’t know how… I’ve forgotten everything… I don’t even know where I’m supposed to go. I don’t know how to approach receptions and offices. My mother always goes everywhere.’
‘A good thing she likes walking. Listen, I know somebody who’ll do that for you at the beginning. She likes that sort of thing. She’s got the right approach and a few acquaintances in the right places. She’d get to those offices with her eyes shut.’
Bartol went up to the jacket hanging on his chair and pulled out his wallet. He kept the business card in one of the compartments as a souvenir. At last it would come in useful. On the business card appeared: Daniela Bartol – mother, and their home number.
He remembered how he’d had to go to the post office to collect the recorded letter that came with it. He’d laughed. The note was just as he’d expected: seeing as he hadn’t deigned to phone for a week, maybe he’d forgotten the number; if so, she was reminding him about herself and politely informing him that she’d had a hundred such business cards printed at the same time because there was a good offer and, well, just in case.
He glanced at the business card once more and handed it to Franciszek.
‘This woman will help you with everything. She once taught at a secondary school and an extramural school, too. She’s my mother. I’ll tell her about you, but don’t dare not phone. It’s not worth it, I tell you, because she’ll find and force you anyway. You know something about that, too. Are we agreed?’
‘Yes,’ replied Franciszek Konopka in a not altogether certain tone, but Bartol was convinced he’d phone.
Saying goodbye, he extended his hand.
‘Well, good luck. Wait and see – you’ll cope.’
‘Thank you. You, too. He was a good man.’
‘I’ll try, just like you.’
Franciszek Konopka left the room, grasping the business card. Right after him left Bartol, who’d decided to find Lentz as quickly as possible. Lentz wasn’t to waste time searching for Mirosław Trzaska’s non-existent family. And Bartol wasn’t to forget to phone his mother and warn her or he’d have to rush off to the post office again, or whatever else she’d come up with.
In the briefing room he saw Pilski standing, all the rest sitting. Olaf Polek was studying a stain on the ceiling; Maćkowiak had reserved another stain – this one on the wall – for himself; and Piotr Lentz was, with interest, examining his new tumour which had assumed the form of a tiny mole on his wrist, which had been growing since he was born and could grow even more at any moment so clearly had to be observed.
‘I’ll collect the report of the autopsy, and you produce the plan of action and deliver it,’ Pilski finally said.
He tried to sound resolute, although Bartol wasn’t sure whether there wasn’t a hint of pity or amusement in his voice. ‘Call me any time if I’m needed.’
And, as in confirmation, his phone rang. Yet again they had a chance to hear a new ringtone – this time bells chiming.
Pilski swiftly said goodbye as he tried to find the phone still ringing in his pocket. He didn’t find it and gong after gong continued to resound behind the closed door.
‘How’s he supposed not to crack up with those bells clanging from morning till night? His Sovereign Highness, the muchneeded one,’ Polek summed up.
‘Let him be, Olaf. He’s not cracking up, he’s calm. You said yourself that if prosecutors got more involved in investigations they’d be more useful in court. What do you want from him?’ asked Lentz.
‘That’s just it. I don’t want anything from him. And I don’t want him to want anything from me. He’s treating us like little boys. The great adviser. It’s best he doesn’t hang around here. Why doesn’t he just get married and go home?’
‘It’s when he gets married that he’s not going to want to rush home,’ laughed Maćkowiak.
Bartol knew Polek was preparing himself for an argument about nothing, and decided to break up the banter.
‘We’re not going to go into the beauty of married life right now. I think we’ve got to search elsewhere. At least for Mirosław Trzaska’s family.’
Everyone looked at Bartol.
‘Don’t be surprised, Maćkowiak, that you haven’t learned anything from his colleagues. They all probably say he didn’t have a family and the documents haven’t revealed anything.’
‘As I said, nothing’s changed,’ Maćkowiak replied. ‘Everyone I’ve spoken to has nothing but vague recollections.’
A faint smile appeared on Bartol’s face; he waited for what was to follow. And was rewarded.
‘Everyone’s just guessing,’ continued Maćkowiak, quoting Pilski’s words with vengeance. ‘Assumptions which get us nowhere,.' He now spoke seriously. ‘Mere gossip – he could have been an alcoholic, could have been homeless, his wife could have left him. He didn’t say anything, they didn’t ask anything and got used to it. Everyone’s got a good or very good opinion of him. He worked exceptionally hard, apparently, and was devoted to helping others. Someone like that’s a rarity. Everyone says the same thing,’ added Maćkowiak. ‘And they also say he was very effective, never wanted to be promoted even though he apparently received interesting propositions from town. I looked through his computer. I didn’t know there were so many organisations – both governmental and others – that can be milked for money. Apart from the mail there’s nothing interesting. Nor did he seek personal happiness on the internet, and apart from a couple of pages on dog shows, same thing all the time.’
‘I’m not one to believe in such saints. In Calcutta maybe, but not here,’ Polek summed up sleepily. ‘Besides, I’m surprised Lalek left his comfort zone just like that. He suddenly fell away from that drunken piece of skirt and had a revelation. Why? Because she threw him out of a stinking dump!’
‘You know what, Olaf, it’s rare but this time your cynicism might be well-founded. I interrogated the son of the woman who knew Trzaska.’
‘Mrs Konopka has been good enough to phone us three times already because she doesn’t feel well and can’t wait for her son,’ Polek added again.
‘She’ll be all right. Getting back to the point, the lad knew Trzaska a little and had a couple of pretty interesting reflections on the subject. He never asked him about anything either, but had the impression that Trzaska had started a new life. That would fit somehow. We have to find out who he was in his othe
r life and what sonorous name he used.’
‘There’s nothing in the documents about him changing his name,’ said Lentz, astonished.
‘And I don’t think he did change it. He simply borrowed it from Mr Traska, perhaps when he was still alive, perhaps after his death. I don’t think he needed to kill him. Trzaska most probably drank himself to death and was buried at the state’s cost, an unidentified victim in one of our larger cities with a heated station. That’s my guess, but as far as I can see it’s the only way it all holds together. Acquaintances who only knew him by the nickname of Lalek didn’t connect him with the surname. And our Mirosław very much wanted to start a new life and I think he did. For a long time he was successful, until someone found him out and reminded him of the life he’d wanted to forget. I think the writing on the glasses was enough to refresh his memory.’
‘All right, if he’d managed to change everything once, why didn’t he hole up somewhere again?’ asked Lentz. ‘He probably knew nothing good was waiting for him.’
‘But maybe he was waiting for it all to end. Maybe he’d had enough and didn’t want to go on hiding. Maybe he wanted to put an end to his penance? We won’t know until we find out who he was, and that’s what we’ve got to concentrate on.’
‘That, we can find out. I invited the woman from Staszic Street to come here so we’ll soon learn a bit more. It’s all a bit convoluted but if she doesn’t recognise him from the photographs, you’re right and that’s it,’ said Polek. ‘Maćkowiak, you go and check our man’s fingerprints. Maybe the state’s already charged him before. I don’t believe in such saints.’
‘And you might be right, Olaf. We’ll find out what he was guilty of,’ agreed Bartol.
‘Good. Have you got anything for me? Because I’ve still got hell of a lot of people to question. They’re all saying pretty much the same thing at the moment but since he wasn’t such a saint maybe somebody will remember something. Am I to ask about that Lalek?’ Maćkowiak made sure.
‘No harm in it,’ answered Bartol, then turned to Polek: ‘You talked to the doctor. Did he mention anything else of interest?’
‘Not really anything we don’t already know. Oh, he did say we have to catch that mongrel which is wandering around because it probably bit him in the ankle once he was dead. There are traces of bites, the pathologist said, an animal’s bites, most probably those of a small dog, but it has to be verified. I’ve already phoned the local police, they’re going to grab it. I’m not going to catch it. The only animals I like live in tins. Besides, I was once bitten by a dog.’
‘You’re scared of a little dog,’ laughed Bartol. ‘Anyway, the dog’s called Harpsichord, pretty funny, don’t you think?’
‘Funny or not, I’ve had a hang-up since childhood. And that includes Harpsichord! Besides, I don’t intend to be a dog-catcher. That lousy job’s not for me. I prefer the job I’ve got.’
‘Okay, nobody’s telling you to be one. The dog probably wanted to wake the man up or knew something bad had happened, that’s why it was howling. Who knows, maybe it was grieving,' Lentz reflected. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
‘Good. The pathologist’s bound to be right but it needs checking out,’ agreed Bartol. ‘Olaf, when you’ve spoken to Trzaska’s former girlfriend, find other people who knew him and find out what happened to Lalek. The rest of you know what we’ve got to do. I’ll gather all the findings and probably get it all down on paper right here.’
They talked a little longer, then Bartol was left alone. Two hours later, Lentz phoned. ‘I never thought I’d see anything like it. We’ve got the dog. It wasn’t easy but we’ve got it. They’re exceptionally cunning, those country mongrels, but we managed,’ he said excitedly.
‘ And?’ Bartol was struck dumb; somehow he hadn’t expected to be talking about the dog.
‘It’s a good thing it bit him. I’m with it at the vet’s right now.’
‘What are you going on about? What do you mean: "It’s a good thing it bit him’?" You were supposed to go to the lab with it, not the vet’s. Have you hurt it or something?’ he asked, annoyed.
‘I’ve already been to the lab but that’s not it. Its ear was terribly grazed, I felt sorry for it…’
Bartol moved the receiver away from his ear and seriously considered hanging up, pretending they’d been cut off. But he didn’t; after all, it was Lentz he was talking to, not Polek.
‘And you know what? The dog hadn’t been injured fighting over a bitch, there was a tattoo on its ear.’
‘You’re joking, the dog was a thoroughbred,’ said Bartol. The conversation didn’t cease to astound him.
‘It’s not a thoroughbred, although I do know some breeds which really do look like mongrels. Don’t laugh. Maybe that’s an overly long preamble to say there’s something written on its ear…’
‘You must be joking!’ Bartol couldn’t force more out.
‘Why do you keep accusing me of joking? Are you mistaking me for somebody else?’
‘Sorry, Piotr, I forgot about your birthday.’ Whenever he was on edge the strangest things came to mind out of the blue. Like now.
‘Listen, what’s happening to you? We’ve arranged to meet this evening as it stands. I haven’t been waiting around since the early hours of the morning expecting a birthday card. You must be curious to know what he’s got written. You’ll have to wait a bit, I’m afraid. My vet’s no sadist. He wants to see to the wounds before shaving Harpsichord’s ear so we can read the rest. What can be seen now is the word Oportet. Not the name of a breeder, as you might guess.’
‘How long will it take?’ asked Bartol, totally disorientated.
‘Not long! I’ll call you straight away, although I’m no longer sure I did the right thing.’
‘How many times do you want me to apologise? It’s not an obvious thing to do, write on a dog.’
‘I’ll be at the station in about half an hour. We’ll talk. Maybe I’ll be able to find out a bit more by then and you’ll have time to gather your wits.’
Bartol sat down, one hand supporting his head, the other rubbing his brow. He rubbed hard as if the massage would help.
He now recalled what Konopka had said about the dog disappearing. He’d apparently been gone for three days, after which Trzaska hadn’t been himself.
Had Trzaska known what it was all about? Had he understood the message? His last days at work hadn’t been different from previous days. Had he come to terms with, or simply waited for, what was to come? Did he guess what lay behind those words?
Bartol couldn’t answer any of these questions. He tried to call Magda. She didn’t pick up.
He waited for her to call back.
She didn’t call, either then or all afternoon.
The vet also took his time. Lentz, who really did appear within an hour, had no intention of hurrying him, stubbornly maintaining that it clearly had to be this way. Bartol respected this, although he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t intend to argue. Nor did he say that he didn’t particularly feel like going out that day. They arranged to meet.
Walking down the corridor, he passed the woman from Staszic Street. He hadn’t met her before but was sure it was her. She was as sober as she could be. There was no waft of alcohol. No smell, but evidence of it was there: old, worn down shoes; a jacket neither first- nor even second-hand; bright, clumsily applied lipstick. As bright as the signs on shops selling the cheap wine which destroyed the people and tenements of Staszic Street like Russian vine.
And as he expected, she didn’t recognise Mirosław Trzaska on the photographs, although the other man had been handsome, too.
They had to wait.
Luckily, Lentz didn’t want greetings or presents. They were to meet at Stary Rynek in a bar on Zamkowa Street. Bartol still had time to go home, change and leave his car. He ordered a taxi and tried getting through to Magda again. She didn’t answer. He was furious with her and with himself. He shouldn’t have trusted her. He shouldn�
��t have.
He took his time leaving. As it turned out, the taxi driver took even more time. It was drizzling. Cold droplets found their way beneath Bartol’s eyelids and behind his collar, and the wind under his jacket. Nobody felt like going for a walk.
It was even worse in the taxi when it finally did arrive, but at least it wasn’t windy. The driver must have loved his work; he talked incessantly, regardless of whether anyone was listening. And everything caused him pain: his neck, legs, life. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t washed his car for so long.
When Bartol finally arrived at Zamkowa Street, his mother called. He glanced at his watch, oh, well. He remembered what he’d forgotten. Now he didn’t massage his forehead as he’d done all day but slapped it as hard as he could. Franciszek.
‘Hello, hello,’ his mother began as though amicably. ‘Hi, mum,’ he replied, grimacing.
‘I guess you haven’t guessed why I’m calling?’ She couldn’t
see him, but from the note of satisfaction in her voice he knew her expression.
‘I can but timidly imagine.’
‘Meaning, those schools weren’t for nothing. Praiseworthy indeed. But I’m only a modest Polish teacher, believe it or not. And if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve been particularly sensitive to this unique stutter of yours since you learned to speak, I’d probably hang up.’
‘I’m sorry. Can you help him in any way? He’s got a Cerberus at home, not an angel and speech therapist rolled into one like I do. Try to understand, mum.’
‘I do. Can’t you guess from whom you inherited both your intelligence and wit? Occasionally, of course, because you’ve clearly taken a break this afternoon.’
‘Thank you so much anyway. I forgot. These things happen.’
‘It would be simpler if you didn’t forget and hadn’t exposed me to a twenty-minute conversation about nothing, just to extract what it’s all about from the shy young man. The patience of this angel might run out, too. For you, of course, because the boy I’ll take care of.’
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