‘Thanks. How can I make it up to you?’
‘Buy yourself some lecithin; it’s good for the memory. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
That wasn’t too bad. It could have been far worse, and taken longer.
He entered the bar. It was crowded for the middle of the week. He saw Lentz at the counter, drinking something and sending a message. Bartol had grown unused to places like this. Crowds, smoke and, as usual, a shabby-looking counter, the more shabby the more besieged. He had no idea why Lentz had chosen this place; it was more suitable for the end of a pub crawl rather than the beginning. Everybody here could be divided into two categories: those still looking around and those no longer looking around.
As in life.
He walked up to Lentz; or rather, squeezed into the tiny free space next to him. He smiled to himself thinking that Maćkowiak wouldn’t fit.
‘Hi, I’m glad you’ve come. What will you have to drink? I’m buying.’ Lentz glanced at the barman. It looked like they knew each other, which surprised Bartol a little.
‘A gin and tonic for me, please,’ Bartol replied, studying the slivers of lemon floating in Lentz’s glass. He was pleased. It didn’t look as if this was going to be a heavy drinking session; Lentz was clearly intent on weakening his organs slowly, without damaging his health.
‘I’ve got news from the vet. The writing says: Quam Oportet. But that’s not all, there’s still more. He says we have to wait till tomorrow. Does it mean anything to you?’
‘The same as all the others. Regardless of where they were written. I spoke to a girl this morning who was supposed to check but she hasn’t ru…’ He hadn’t finished the sentence before he heard a familiar tune. He looked at his phone.
‘Incredible. Talk of the devil. I’ll just take this, ok?’
‘Of course.’
‘Hello,’ he answered in a slightly formal, perhaps even offended tone.
‘Hello, hello. I see you called. My phone was off. I didn’t want to get distracted, it was going well. I spent practically the whole day buried in old books. Where are you?’
‘Zamkowa Street.’ He didn’t know whether he’d done the right thing. Lentz, seeing his embarrassment, nodded and shrugged, easy going.
‘Maybe I could drop by, leave you what I’ve written. Are you alone or with a girl?’
‘A friend.’
‘Sorry, I’m nosy. A friend, why not? It’s none of my business.’
‘A colleague from work!’ Bartol was embarrassed again. ‘Drop by if you can.’
‘A colleague from work, why not? I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, I’m not far. So long.’
Bartol looked apologetically at Lentz. He wasn’t sure whether he was pleased with this turn of events; he quickly finished his drink.
‘Don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t intending to confide in you, I simply wanted to go out and chat. You were around, that’s all.’
Bartol wasn’t sure it was true but didn’t want to labour the subject. He was even a little pleased; he didn’t exclude the possibility that, in view of potential pancreatic cancer, Lentz might leave him his old clock.
Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait long for Magda; she was there ten minutes later.
He noticed her first. And not only he. A number of men raised their eyes from their tankards and, with the expression of experienced tailors, measured her from head to toe and up again. With satisfaction. She looked different again. Tight jacket, thin colourful scarf wrapped rakishly around her neck, windswept auburn hair, and a flush. He didn’t have to wonder long whether he was the only one to think she didn’t look bad.
More and more people fixed their gaze on the girl as she cast her eyes around. He wondered whether he, too, didn’t stare like that at times. Be that as it may, he didn’t like it. He got up and leaned over so that she could catch sight of him more easily. It helped. She waved and briskly walked over, without looking around anymore. Several men followed her with their eyes then lost interest as soon as she reached her destination. Two men were competition.
‘Greetings, gentlemen. I’m Magda.’ She extended her hand to Lentz without undue ceremony.
‘Piotr. What will you have to drink?’ He smoothed his bald pate. ‘I’m paying. It’s my birthday today. Twenty-eight,’ he added, pleased with his joke.
‘Shame, because I’m looking for someone over thirty. Happy birthday. I hope I’m not interrupting a private party. Besides, I thought we’d arranged to meet.’ She looked at Bartol.
‘I phoned,’ he replied. ‘Piotr’s also in on the investigation. It’s worked out well that there’s the three of us.’ He smiled, his eyes on Lentz. He certainly looked like someone who had nothing wrong with him or ever had.
‘I’d like some tea, please. I’m a bit cold. Perhaps with a drop of rum. I’d prefer to sit at a table – it’s crowded here – but it doesn’t look as though one’s going to be free for some time. I’ve brought a file with me, I’ve noted down a few things…’
‘You’re right. Let’s drink up and go somewhere quieter,’ Lentz said unexpectedly and peered strangely around the pillar. He quickly pulled out his wallet and paid for what they’d ordered earlier; he didn’t even attempt ordering any tea.
Bartol had no idea what was happening to him.
He didn’t have to speculate for long. Before he had time to turn and see for himself, he heard Polek’s laughter in chorus with the giggling of a young lady who, as it turned out, was snuggling up to him in more than mere friendship. Fortunately, Polek didn’t notice them, either then or as they left. He was too engrossed in creating his new image, which involved going back some twenty years – no easy task while holding one’s breath.
Bartol followed Magda and Lentz.
He stared at the ground and not only because the cobblestones of Stary Rynek glistened dangerously, warning of their slippery surface. The whole way, he mulled over what he’d seen. Polek must have gone mad. Perhaps he’d reached the age when guys still want to prove something to themselves
– that was none of his business – but since when was he so stupid as to prove it in a bar where he could come across his own daughter?
Bartol knew Polek’s wife well, certainly well enough to foresee what would happen if she were to find out. She’d thrash him, wring and wash him right out. And finally she’d probably throw him out on Bartol’s doormat with the note: bastard to bastard.
He knew she didn’t speak well of Bartol since the slip-up with the pregnancy. He didn’t feel like fighting it; besides, it accorded with that twisted logic women have.
She’d pushed for the introduction; they could have made such a fine couple – her colleague from work, her husband’s friend. She had such good intentions, had organised it all so well and now resented it hadn’t worked out so well. But that wasn’t her fault.
Obviously.
Polek’s daughter was at an age when she’d stick up for her mother out of sheer spite. She’d been unbearable of late, and Polek would never live this down.
Bartol knew he had to talk to him. But how?
With relief, he set the problem aside for later. They’d reached Żydowska Street and sat down in a little bar-cumcafé. It was warm with small armchairs, a chocolate colour scheme and smooth music. All this put together started to have a soothing effect.
He walked up to the bar to order something and instinctively looked around. The first thing which occurred to him was that here, on the other hand, he could come across Polek’s wife. Almost all the tables were taken up by women of a certain age who talked gracefully about how to trim the wings of forty-yearold Pegasuses and how to choose the right colour of napkins to go with the tablecloth. At least that’s what he thought.
He shook all these thoughts away.
‘It’s a good thing we moved. The atmosphere’s a bit lighter here. It was dark with all that smoke and people at the other place. All nervous with the chase. While here, they calmly exchange various bedroom exper
iences, official and unofficial, of course.’ Magda, laughing, was the first to speak.
Bartol and Lentz didn’t laugh nor did they say anything.
‘But to the point.’ Looking at them she instantly turned serious. ‘We’ve got three sayings.’
‘Four,’ corrected Bartol, slowly setting their thoughts along the right track.
‘How come four?’ An entire stave of wrinkles appeared on her forehead.
‘The last victim’s dog had the words quam oportet freshly tattooed on it.’
‘All that! On a dog, how’s that? What’s this about?’ Her surprise didn’t surprise either of them.
‘No, that isn’t all. We’re going to have the rest of the sentence tomorrow. Let’s start at the beginning. What have you discovered so far? That’s probably easiest.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’ The highly wrinkled brow slowly unwrinkled. ‘So, from the beginning. The first body had two sayings attributed to it. Right, so there ought to be two by the second one, that figures,’ she thought out loud. ‘Do you have the photographs?’ She glanced at Bartol and nodded. ‘You don’t, too bad. One way or another I suggest that both the first and second dictum found by the first corpse refer to hope. That was my first association, too, and probably the best. I also took other meanings into consideration but kept going back to the same idea. Rightly so, I think. The caption Expecto donec veniat appears in the book of Juan de Boria in Empresas Morales published in Prague, 1581, with the following commentary… I’ve got it written down here somewhere.’ She took a while flicking through her papers, finally found the right place and started reading: ‘“Hope should be cultivated in the belief that misfortune will not last long and the longed-for happiness and peace which will be solace for misery will come soon.” Admittedly, Boria suggested the symbol of a locust to render the meaning…’
‘And what’s a locust got to do with it?’ asked Bartol.
Lentz didn’t ask anything, just sat eyes wide open.
‘In this case nothing. That’s not the point. It’s the commentary that counts, but the images can vary depending on what model the artist followed. It’s not as complicated as it seems.’
‘I believe otherwise,’ answered Bartol, resigned. Too many impressions for one day, he felt.
‘Well, then here’s a brief lecture,’ said Magda. Lentz merely lowered his head and finished what was in his glass. ‘A certain preacher, Christoforo Giarda, wrote something like this – and it’s worth remembering.’ She picked up one of her pieces of paper. ‘“All knowledge concerning learning and virtue is useful to man, but knowledge concerning the invention and shaping of symbolic images infinitely exceeds any other because thanks to this gift”’ – she started to enunciate each word more slowly – ‘“the spirit, banished from heaven to the dark cavern of the body and in its deeds tied to the senses, can gaze at the beauty and form of virtues and learning removed from all matter though still generally described in its form.” Beautifully put, don’t you think?’ She looked at her listeners and, seeing their dull expressions, didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Besides, he believed that the entire universe was a library of symbolic images ordered by the Creator… But to the point, the genesis of many symbols which accompany various concepts is extremely interesting and, to a greater or lesser extent, complicated. Nevertheless, not long after printing was invented, people decided to set all this in order because, as time went on, they couldn’t get the hang of it all. On a French illumination from 1450 Prudence has the attributes of a coffin, coin, sieve, mirror, spade and scythe. A bit much, don’t you think? You don’t know what it means.’
They agreed with her. This time it was Bartol who finished his glass. Nobody suggested another round, afraid, perhaps, that they’d start to understand.
‘Vasari, for example, wrote a whole book explaining what he himself had painted earlier. Finally, someone decided to see to it and a certain Andrea Alciato published his Emblematum liber in 1531. He was almost immediately taken to be the father of – and authority on – emblems; symbols to you. Then, in 1593 the work was completed by Cesare Ripa who wrote Iconology and depicted practically all commonly used abstract concepts. Other, less significant books were written, like the one in which I found the maxim, but the idea’s generally the same – drawing, symbol, caption and explanation. It’s a set of instructions that can be used to put forward an idea in a way everyone can understand and know what the artist wants to say by his work… Besides, the artist wasn’t the most important thing here; what was important was what was intended to be portrayed. I won’t delve into the details but let’s put it this way: you couldn’t, in principle, freely interpret what was painted in a church or municipal council. It had to be edifying and comprehensible. I think I’m expressing myself reasonably clearly?’
There was a moment of silence. Neither of them said a word. She looked at each in turn, nodded and started again.
‘In your field, for example, what do you think a woman holding scales represents?’
‘A balanced woman,’ replied Lentz confidently.
‘Yes, and with a heart – kind-hearted! A woman with scales and a sword personifies Justice. You’d better not think, just listen.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Right, let’s take it slowly. Hope, in paintings or sculpture, for example, is represented by a woman with an anchor against the background of a seascape. I’ll tell you how well it’s been explained.’ Again she glanced at her notes. ‘I won’t read to you about the anchor because that surely is a simple association, safe harbour and so on, but he wrote well about the seascape, too: “Sailing on a dancing, surging sea is not easy because man crosses the boundaries assigned to him; yet, armed with trust, he can behold the Kingdom of Heaven” – that’s how Cesare Ripa explained it, among other things. So that when someone painted a young woman with an anchor and a seething sea in the background, someone who was illiterate, for example, understood perfectly well what he saw – you have to hope and trust in God that you’ll return home, for example. That’s why for someone who knew how to read and was a more sophisticated client, it was enough to have one symbol like, for example, those sunflowers, and a note which broadened the idea. When reading Expecto donec veniat, he could have recalled the story of Job who lost everything, asked himself why it was happening to him and so on but trusted in God and everything ended well. I don’t intend to play the smart alec or try to convince you that it’s interesting, but the man you’re looking for seems to know all this. And as I was saying… aha, he’s addressing a sophisticated client who’s going to understand – unless he’s doing it only for himself and doesn’t care whether anybody reads it or not. But I don’t think so. Why bother? I think he’s concocting an ideology and the recipient of his work, if I can put it that way, is important. I’ve no clue what his principle idea is, but he does want to depict some sort of idea.’ She broke off.
‘And what’s a locust got to do with it?’ asked Bartol unintentionally.
‘The bug’s pestering you. It’s got nothing to do with it. The same words and sunflowers are bound to be somewhere in another book. It rings a bell, but I haven’t found it yet. The meaning’s much the same: with time the locust will fly away and the earth will give birth anew, in the same way as sunflowers bow to the sun in farewell, but you have to have hope that dawn is finally going to break and they’ll raise their heads in greeting. That’s why I think it’s a question of hope here. Besides, that’s what the dictum Dum spiro spero says. A naked body and the caption "While there’s life there’s hope", although in our case the context is grotesque. Here, I’ve no doubt whatsoever. It’s harder with the other body. There, I’m finding it more difficult, glasses are…’
She stopped. They weren’t the only ones to turn their heads. Two girls had entered the bar, laughing exceptionally loudly. They must have made a mistake; they didn’t suit the place. After a quick inspection and a giggled and gabbled appraisal of the situation, just as they’d made an abrupt entry so they made a loud decision to lea
ve. A couple of people smiled pitifully.
‘Well, you know how the virtue of Moderation is represented, don’t you?’ asked Magda. ‘A woman adds water to wine with no implied meaning, simply to dilute it and temper the strength of the drink. A drink. It couldn’t be any simpler. The symbol might well have been more widespread. The girls were a bit tipsy, weren’t they?’
‘They certainly were. Is there something about wine and drinking in the Bible, too?’ asked Lentz.
‘There certainly is! In numerous instances. Besides, practically everything’s there. I even remember a sentence from Sirach’s Book of Wisdom: “what life is then to a man that is without wine? For it was made to make men glad.” Drunk in moderation, of course. Times change but problems don’t. But let’s get back to the spectacles and their writing: Speculator adstad de sui. I didn’t find the maxim anywhere. I asked a couple of people but with no results as yet. I’m also finding it difficult to translate unambiguously. Literally, it could be taken to mean "the observer stands next to his own men", but could also be with his own, perhaps not stands but supports. I’m not sure. Spectacles represent the sense of sight so it can only refer to sight; but it could also mean the eye, for example, the Eye of Providence, God. Do you have any more details, some sort of context perhaps?’
Lentz spoke first.
‘Maciej hasn’t got the photographs, as you may have gathered. The second victim was sitting at a small table with his hand on a Bible. Next to it stood a cross. He was also the owner of the dog with a fresh tattoo on its ear. Part of the writing goes quam oportet. We don’t have any more at the moment.’
‘Don’t have any more,’ repeated Magda. Without waiting for an answer, she spoke to herself. ‘Don’t have any more,’ she repeated again, frowning.
‘Don’t have any more at the moment,’ Lentz said in a slightly irritated voice, looking at Maciej. ‘Let’s give the vet time. It hasn’t healed that quickly, the wounds need to be cleaned!’
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