‘Sorry, Piotr, that’s not the point. Of course I’ll wait. "Don’t have any more" rings a bell but I’ve no idea why. You go on celebrating, I’ll go home,’ she added, quite unexpectedly, and got up from the table.
Both men were so astonished by her sudden decision they didn’t have time to react appropriately. Paying no attention to them, Magda approached the coat rack and took her jacket.
‘Please phone me in the morning, Maciej, when you find out some more. I’ll carry on looking. Remember the photographs,’ she said, wrapping the long scarf tightly around her neck and taking a hat from her bag.
‘Wait, we’ll order you a taxi, it’s late,’ Lentz declared.
‘No need. I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. The whole way’s brightly lit, so no fears. I think best when I walk and I’ve got a bit of thinking to do, but thanks for the concern. And happy birthday again.’ She walked up to Lentz and kissed him on the cheek, clearly embarrassing him. She extended her hand to Maciej.
‘Call when you can.’
‘Pick up when you can,’ Bartol concluded in an offended tone. She was supposed to have dropped in for a moment but he guessed the moment had long passed.
‘Okay,’ she agreed, laughing. ‘See you tomorrow, probably. Maybe I’ll find something. I’ve confused you enough for one day.’
‘Sort of, but it was still nice meeting you,’ said Lentz.
‘Bye.’ Maciej didn’t add anything; they already knew each other.
She turned as she opened the main door. Maybe she knew they were staring at her. She waved goodbye. Her hair looked radiantly red in the street light, so much so that Bartol almost saw sparks fly. At least that’s what it seemed to him.
They didn’t say anything at first; then, after a while, the conversation was still heavy going. They didn’t even mention Polek, as though nobody had seen anything. They merely exchanged a few observations and both agreed that somebody like Magda could prove useful.
They didn’t quite understand what she’d said even, though both admitted they enjoyed listening to her. Perhaps it would lead to something, and that was that.
They ordered one more drink, downed it quickly and left.
Nothing came of further celebrations.
Bartol got home, washed, went to bed but couldn’t, for a change, fall asleep. The day seemed horribly long. He felt exhausted yet sleep eluded him.
All sorts of thoughts ran through his head, bouncing off each other with fatigue and helplessness.
The woman from Staszic Street, Lalek who had another life
– a pity it wasn’t his own – spotty Franciszek, the small lettering on Magda’s t-shirt which he never managed to put together to form words. For some unknown reason he added his own eventual presence at the baby’s delivery and completely lost the desire to lie there with eyes closed.
He got up, poured himself some vodka again, and again there was nothing but water. This time he downed it quickly. It helped a little. On the way back to bed, he glanced at the phone. There was a message. He read it several times: ‘It’ll be non plus on the ear. Goodnight.’
It took him a while to figure out the message was from Magda and referred to the mongrel’s ear, but still he couldn’t understand anything. The only thing he managed to work out was that he wasn’t going to work anything out. Trivial, stupefying thoughts, such as whether or not to wear the blue sweater the following day, encouraged sleep to come – not instantly but at a slow crawl Because it had to come in the end.
As it was he woke up a couple of times in the night and between four and five didn’t sleep at all. When he’d almost decided to get up for good and have an early start, he was overcome with drowsiness. He laid his head on the pillow and thought he didn’t sleep. The alarm went off but a drowsy thought that he shouldn’t worry, that it would ring again, flashed through his mind.
Something rang but it wasn’t the alarm; it was the phone, and it didn’t give up easily. It rang three times in a row. In the end it stood him on his feet.
His mother. ‘Yes, hello.’ He tried to sound alert but didn’t manage to deceive her.
‘Well, well. I thought you’d grown out of it. I still can’t understand how you got through primary school when it started at eight. I hope you’re grateful to me for waking you up.’
‘Yes, very. I was lucky to be part of the baby boom and – just for the record – often started at eleven as far as I remember. I’m in a bit of a hurry right now, mum. Did you want anything?’
‘Me, no, I’m just your wake-up call!’
‘Mum…’
‘Listen, I can’t visit your girlfriend today so please phone and see if she needs anything. She’s on leave and mustn’t tire herself. Do some shopping or whatever, but get yourself involved!’
‘All right, but can’t we go together? You somehow manage to communicate with each other while I… You go.’ The minute he said it, he regretted it.
‘I’m phoning to tell you I can’t.’ The tone of his mother’s voice now shook him awake, which didn’t stop him from asking foolishly:
‘But why?’
‘Come on, are you really still in primary school? I can’t and that’s that. Women’s business.’
‘What?’ He still wasn’t in control of what he was saying.
‘Which version do you want to hear? The one which will put you off your breakfast or the detailed one so you won’t be able to look at food until supper?’
‘All right, mum, I’ll phone, but today I might have a lot of…’
‘Try. And call me in the evening to tell me how hard you tried. Get up and don’t sulk. Go and look how beautiful it’s outside. Bye.’
‘Bye,’ he said to the phone, then to himself: ‘Of course it’s beautiful, from the very morning.’
He muttered under his breath: ‘Women’s business, end of conversation.’ When he’d once told her he was going out with his friends and it was men’s business, what did he hear? 'Since when has drinking and boasting been business?’
He looked out of the window. Nothing really had changed; the trees were bare, the grass was the colour of rotting grass, but the sun was indeed shining and that changed a great deal. Maybe that’s why he got himself together with exceptional speed. Once he was in the car, the phone rang again. Fortunately, it was Lentz this time.
‘Hi, I’ve got everything that’s written there. Can you call Magda? You know what it says?’
‘Non plus. Am I right?’
‘How do you know?’ asked Lentz, completely baffled.
‘I’ll be at the firm in half an hour. I’ll tell you then.’
‘Ok. See you.’
‘See you.’
He phoned Magda, or rather tried phoning her again; she didn’t pick up. He wasn’t even surprised or very annoyed. He’d obviously have to get used to it. But a moment later he couldn’t help but be surprised. She didn’t call back; instead she sent a message: ‘Was I right?’ He wrote back that she was. Silence at her end; that was all. He merely nodded in disbelief. Surely she wasn’t counting her pennies? Yet if this wasn’t thrift, what was it?
He decided not to give it too much thought, at least not for the time being; the weather was fine and set both humans and traffic in a good mood. The traffic jams were the same as the day before but everybody was driving as if more smoothly and politely. He arrived at headquarters in relatively good time, and the moment he entered was taken aback. He wasn’t so late as to deserve a thunderous: ‘Finally!’ from Polek, and expectant looks from the rest of th team.
‘It’s a good thing you’re here. We’ve some interesting stuff. We need to plan the day because there’s going to be a lot of work,’ Maćkowiak joined in.
‘All right, I’m sorry. I overslept a bit but let’s not exaggerate. So what’s all this interesting stuff you’ve got?’
‘Hyper-interesting stuff. We were both right. One: one,’ said Polek excitedly. ‘That saint of ours wasn’t so saintly. We received information yesterday that
our Lalek disappeared about ten years ago, hardly anyone remembered him in Warszawa. He was collecting empty bottles and cans in train compartments and didn’t get off on time – which happened often enough apparently – then disappeared somewhere along the Warszawa-Rzeszów line. Nobody looked for him nor did he turn up of his own accord, the poor guy. As you can guess, he didn’t report his documents missing. We can’t exclude his having sold them for a bottle. But there’s more. We’re leaving the best to the end, Sleeping Beauty.’
‘Olaf!’
‘All right, all right, listen to this. We now know who our Mother Theresa of Poznań was. And this is where you were right.’
‘What? He had a record?’ asked Bartol.
‘And whow. Not just any felony. You’re in for quite a surprise. Murder, sir.’
‘I wasn’t expecting anything as big as that despite everything!’ He was thrown – completely.
‘And that’s still not all. He’d already previously wanted to outsmart ordinary mortals and be nearer to God,’ said Polek with undisguised irony, and paused meaningfully.
‘What do you mean?’ Bartol had never liked being kept on edge, and even less so of late.
‘Maciej, he used to be a priest and went by the name of Father Jan Maria Gawlicki.’ Lentz, who probably didn’t feel like dramatic pauses at that moment either, anticipated Polek.
‘What!’ Bartol was truly worked up. The rest must have already cooled down because they seemed unimpressed. ‘What did he do?’ he asked.
‘You’ve been sleeping for a week!’ Polek spoke again. ‘The information’s already ten minutes old.’
‘All right, so what’s there in your papers?’ Bartol wanted to sort out the confusion mounting in his head as soon as possible. Something like this he had not expected.
‘Not much as it is,’ began Maćkowiak. ‘He did sixteen years, that’s all, was released and that’s the last that was heard of him. Until now, of course. Maciej, this was the end of the sixties, the beginning of the seventies. The authorities had loosened things up a bit but let’s not blow things out of proportion. Militia weren’t the only ones involved in a case like this. Special services must have taken it over straight away. That’s probably why we didn’t come across him right away but had to dig around a bit, and that’s probably why his files aren’t up front. Maybe we’ll find them, maybe we won’t. Maybe he started to collaborate. Maybe he had some sort of information. Who knows, and who’s going to tell you now?’ he concluded in a resigned voice.
‘We’ll try, but we mustn’t expect miracles. What we’ve got to do now is check whether Father Gawlicki had any family. That way we’ll be all the quicker to discover his sins,’ said Lentz.
‘You’re right, that’s where we need to start,’ agreed Bartol. ‘One thing’s for certain: he knew his Latin,’ he said to himself.
Before long, they realised that, despite the incredible complexity of the case, there was a chance of their finding out much more that same day. Admittedly, Jan Maria Gawlicki had committed his crime in a small town in the Lubuskie district and served his sentence near Rzeszów but, by some miracle, his sister, Maria Anna Gawlicka-Sęk, lived somewhere between Konin and Kutno, not more than a two-hour drive away.
Nor was there any difficulty in finding out whether she was at home. Her full address and telephone number appeared on the pages of dog shows, canine associations and beneath the descriptions of numerous breeds.
They began with Lentz phoning about a Caucasian Sheepdog puppy. There weren’t any such pups but there were some Labradors; in those, too, he showed interest. Bartol had initially intended to go with Polek, as he usually did. He wasn’t looking forward to discussing what he’d seen the previous evening, but silently banked on the conversation cropping up of its own accord and on his being able to keep his colleague in check a little before the wife did.
After an hour it happened that he wouldn’t have to keep anything in check; Polek declared that – categorically, absolutely and exceptionally – he wouldn’t be able to go. Bartol was relieved, but intuition told him the relief was only temporary.
He went with Lentz.
They hadn’t even left Poznań when Magda phoned. Bartol slipped off onto the lay-by to talk. He turned the speaker on, wanting Lentz to hear what Magda had to say. He feared he wouldn’t be able to repeat it all to him later.
‘Hi, I’m doing well for the time being. I guessed right, didn’t I?’
‘Hi. I’m full of admiration. Are these sayings pretty common in some circles?’
‘No, but you can thank Piotr for me, they’re his words: nothing more – non plus.’
‘You can thank him yourself. He’s right next to me.’
‘Many thanks, Piotr. Could even be we’re a couple of hours ahead on the job.’
‘I didn’t do anything, but am glad to be of help.’
Bartol noticed that saying this Lentz fidgeted nervously, ran his fingers through what was left of his hair, rubbed his nose nervously, and even blushed a little.
‘So the whole thing reads: non plus quam oportet. It’s from Saint Paul’s Letter to the Romans, chapter 12, verse 3. You don’t have to take it down, I’ll print it out for you. The longer translation goes: “Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you.” End of quotation. Those are words addressed, in fact, to the first ministers of Christian society. Their equivalent, in our times, being priests.’
The men looked at each other. Bartol was the first to speak.
‘Listen, Magda, you don’t write newspaper articles, do you?’
‘Quite the contrary, unfortunately. I only read them unless you’ve got something interesting, then maybe I’ll switch jobs.’
‘This isn’t much of a laughing matter.’
‘Sorry, of course not.’ Her voice sounded genuinely apologetic.
‘We’ve just learned,’ Bartol continued, ‘that the last victim was a priest. We didn’t know that yesterday.’
‘See. It’s all starting to make sense, and I’m certainly on the right track to make sense of it all. Drop in this evening, or tomorrow. I’ll prepare all the possible interpretations that come to me. You might find them useful.’
‘We certainly will, I know that already, and thank you in advance. I’ll drop by today if I can, if not tomorrow. See you.’
‘See you. Bye, Piotr.’
‘Bye.’
‘It’s a shame I can’t make any sense of it all. Do you understand anything?’ He turned to Lentz.
‘She’s great, Magda,’ said Lentz, rubbing his nose nervously again.
Bartol had expected a straight answer, that no, he didn’t understand anything. This answer he didn’t like. He didn’t know why the subject of women and Lentz had never existed before, and everyone had long grown used to that. He couldn’t remember anyone commenting on the fact that despite his undisguised bald pate and his forty years of age, Lentz was still living with his mother, nor did anyone joke about the fact that he had a little white dog (although it was possible that Bartol was the only one who knew). A girl had, admittedly, once told Bartol that had Lentz been taller he would be handsome and was, in fact, interesting. And she’d even tried to get Lentz interested in her, but to no avail. Bartol hadn’t heard of anyone else trying. Why was Lentz suddenly so worked up?
They didn’t speak for a long time. Lentz reclined his seat a little and closed his eyes. It looked as if he intended to doze off; that’s certainly how it was supposed to look.
One way or another, Bartol wasn’t very surprised. He did the same sometimes when he didn’t feel like talking. Especially when he was in the car with Polek and wasn’t driving. And whenever he travelled in this direction. When they were in the vicinity of Konin, Polek would always, but always, partition Poland for the fourth time into Greater Poland and the rest. He did this with such conviction and determination as though he were going to climb out
of the car at any moment, plant a border post and stand guard. He loved convincing himself and anyone who was at hand that the wind of better times did not blow from the east, that the only uprising which had won in the country – the Greater Poland Uprising – won precisely because it was in Poland and nobody interfered, and so on. It was impossible to listen for more than five minutes.
The journey went well. There was little traffic, the sun shone all the way and it only clouded over and rained once they’d reached their destination.
A signpost on the main road indicated immediate left and informed that it was only eight kilometres to Grabno. If it wasn’t for the muddy road winding through the willows, it wouldn’t have been far. No doubt, some other season this would have been a scenic country track, but not now.
The windscreen wipers not only swept the rain aside but also had to clear the mud which splattered beneath their wheels as they drove through puddles much deeper than they appeared. Bartol had slowed down to almost twenty kilometres an hour when beneath the wheels he sensed tarmac, which began or maybe ended right in the middle of a field. There was no reasonable explanation why precisely here, precisely now, halfway down the track.
He didn’t give it any more thought; they were at their destination. They decided to ask the people at the bus stop where Mrs Gawlicka-Sęk lived.
They halted. The face of the man approaching the car wasn’t friendly. He must have approached out of curiosity or perhaps because he was closest.
Lentz lowered the window.
‘Good morning, we’re looking for Mrs Gawlicka, perhaps you could…’ – he didn’t finish.
‘Not again! Give us a break with that dog-woman. Any more of you around?’
It seemed to Bartol as though the man slobbered as he shouted.
‘Kowalik, give the men a break. They’ve come a long way,’ said a woman in a brownish-grey autumn coat, an amusing contrast to her pink umbrella with its stain-remover logo. ‘Long way? Then they should take her with them,’ grunted the man.
‘Stop it, I tell you. Go to the end of the village, turn right at the little shrine, then…’
‘Then they’ll hear for themselves’ – the man broke in again, and turning to the police officers, immediately added: ‘Can’t you see the bus is coming?’
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