They did see and pulled away, without even having time to thank the woman with the pink trophy umbrella.
‘I don’t think everyone likes Anna,’ said Bartol.
‘I can guess why. Might have seen it coming. You’re going to have to go by yourself, I’ll wait in the car,’ announced Lentz.
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Bartol, annoyed.
‘Listen, I like animals, which is why I even stopped eating meat. Although Sunday’s not Sunday at home without roast duck and dumplings…’
‘You said you were on a diet, as far as I remember.’
‘Because it’s better for my image. Enough, there’s no point in discussing it. Go on your own,’ concluded Lentz.
He said no more. Once again Bartol had the impression that, by some strange law, the more time he spent with Lentz the less he knew about him. He wondered for a moment whether that didn’t apply to everyone whom he’d recently come across.
He reached what he thought was the end of the village and turned right at a small shrine full of dirty, plastic flowers. Presently they did, in fact, hear not so much the barking of dogs as angry growling which grew louder as they approached the old, square house surrounded by a hideous wall of ready-made concrete blocks. Bricks and columns. If he could, he would willingly have prohibited the production of such ghastly enclosures. He also counted on people finally getting bored of them, but they didn’t. This construction appeared relatively new even.
‘Are you sure you aren’t coming?’ he asked one more time, no conviction in his voice.
‘I’m sure,’ Lentz replied, with conviction.
Bartol approached the gate, wondering whether to use the doorbell. He wasn’t sure anything could be heard apart from the dogs growling, barking, snarling, howling and emitting a whole range of noises he couldn’t even describe.
He did use the bell, although it proved unnecessary; someone was already opening the gate for him. It caught him by surprise; he hadn’t seen anyone approach. The woman was a head shorter than the enclosure. She seemed too small for her enormous, sleeveless, quilted worker’s jacket and too small for the dog which stood near her, reached to her waist and must have weighed more than her – although she, too, was not the slimmest.
Bartol couldn’t move a step. The dogs started barking even louder, if that was at all possible.
‘Don’t be frightened. Leo, home!’ The huge, ginger creature cast its hostile eyes at him, turned lazily, wagged its tail the size of a grown man’s arm, and meekly stepped into one of the pens. One of a hundred pens, so it seemed to Bartol. They were all over the yard, everywhere. In each, a few dogs of different hues, sizes and degree of rage.
‘Have you come for a Labrador or a Leonberger? I can’t remember,’ the woman asked with reservation.
‘I’d like to talk first.’
‘My dogs have the best papers, they’re champions, but do come in if you want a look.’ Without waiting for an answer she made towards the front door. Opening, she added: ‘I don’t intend to bargain, if that’s what you’ve got in mind.’
Bartol followed her in, accompanied by five or six other dogs, eager to make the most of the opportunity.
It stank outside, but the stench indoors was beyond description. An old domestic stench mixed with a new one emanating from huge pans in which something he couldn’t even call dog-food was boiling. It reeked of urine.
‘Please sit down. Would you like something to drink?’ The woman removed her quilted jacket, which didn’t smell all that sweetly either.
Bartol didn’t know where to sit down. Everything must have been sticky. Small cages for small dogs and containing small dogs stood in the room. The food in the corridor began to boil well and good. The thought of something to drink almost made him gag.
‘No, thank you.’ Finally, he sat down, trying not to touch anything with his hands.
The woman left.
One of the small dogs, probably the smallest he’d ever seen, started to furiously throw itself at its cage, barking, or rather squealing like a toy, and clearly addressing him.
Maybe it had seen someone put puppies in their pocket during a visit like this; the pups could be mistaken for a fairsized key ring.
Bartol turned his head, hoping that if he stopped looking at it the thing would finally lose interest in him. But no. Bartol got up and turned his back.
He stared at a shelf on the wall laden with cups, medals and photographs of medallists. He studied the photographs for a long time before noticing one pushed far back, a faded picture in an old frame. A small, laughing young woman astride a horse, its bridle held by a well-built, squinting boy. They could have been siblings.
‘Well, go ahead, what sort of dog were you thinking about?’ she asked as she entered. She tried to smile but it was obvious she didn’t like talking, at least not to human beings.
‘I haven’t come for a dog,’ began Bartol.
She made no attempt to be pleasant anymore.
‘So what are you doing here?’ she shouted and, after a while, added: ‘You don’t look like the district guard either.’
‘But that’s warmer. I’m from the police. Was Jan Maria Gawlicki your brother?’
The woman instinctively fell into the armchair and didn’t say anything for a long time. It was as though the dogs had stopped barking, too.
‘Yes. Anna Maria Sęk, maiden name Gawlicka,’ she replied. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Your brother was murdered three days ago. Can you tell me when you last saw him?’
The woman got up without a word, walked to the door and opened it wider; two of the larger dogs understood her unspoken command and slowly left.
‘More than thirty years ago,’ she answered after a long pause. ‘At first I didn’t want to see him. Then he me,’ she added, gazing at her skirt as though she had just noticed the huge stain on it. She started rubbing the stain off with her hand as though only now, as she looked into the past, did it start worrying her.
It wouldn’t come off; it was too old.
‘I divorced my husband, you know, moved house – ran away really – but kept my name… So that one day he would walk in like you and say: I’m here.’ She broke off once more. ‘From what you say, I take it there’s nothing for me to wait for?’ she added without looking at him.
Bartol didn’t reply. Besides, she wasn’t expecting an answer.
‘What really happened, over thirty years ago?’
‘Don’t you know?’ she asked in a dispassionate voice.
‘I’d like to hear it from you.’
‘You’d like to hear it from me? It’s me who’d like to hear from you what really happened.’ She started rubbing one hand nervously against the other, again without looking at him. ‘Please tell me… how did he die and… live.’
‘Well, he probably knew his murderer, which is why my talking to you is so important. How did he live? A good life probably. He’d been doing social work for the past ten years under a different name. He helped a lot of people and a lot of people are grateful to him. They speak well of him.’
She remained silent, staring blankly at one of the – surprisingly – empty cages.
‘So he’d found his calling… He always did say he’d find it in the end… That I shouldn’t worry.’ She smiled at her memories. ‘He always used to pull me by my plait, to frighten me…’ Her hand tried to find the plait. But didn’t. ‘He didn’t have a vocation then. Couldn’t find it,’ she added after a while. ‘It wasn’t what he’d dreamed of. It was our mother’s dream. She prayed five times a day for him to become a priest. And her prayers were finally answered. Sure, God listens to a mother’s prayer.’ Saying this she laughed - horrifically somehow. ‘Then, after it had happened, she never left the house, prayed for a quick death and He listened to her again. She was lucky; she didn’t have long to wait.’ The woman’s face turned hostile again; it wasn’t a happy memory. Suddenly she got up as if she’d returned to reality. ‘I’ll g
o and turn the kidneys off. They must be done by now.’
She left. The dogs started barking again. The fresh stench no longer steamed and slowly started to carry and cover the walls and clothes with one more layer.
‘Please tell me what happened?’ Bartol asked quickly, seeing her come in.
‘He wasn’t suited to it,’ she spoke calmly now. ‘He liked life. He liked women and they liked him.’ She broke off. ‘But our mother probably loved him more and it was probably out of love that she didn’t want to hand him over to another woman. Maybe if our father had lived… He’d somehow given up on it… I think Jan even liked this unavailability of his at first. For a time.’ She broke off again. Bartol couldn’t hurry her, although he very much wanted to. He was worried he wouldn’t be able to wash the smell off.
‘I didn’t see her. We visited his parish a couple of times, my mother and I, but I never saw her. Later they merely said she was pretty, that she’d got married at an early age so as to leave home because they were poor, that her husband was strange, that she laughed at him saying he had nothing in his pants… Apparently everyone in the village knew and in the end he found out, too… that what he didn’t have in his pants she’d found beneath the frock of a priest… You know the rest better than me.’ She broke off for good and started stroking a spotted dog which had laid its head on her lap.
‘Please go on.’
‘We lived ninety kilometres away.’ She stopped. The dog, grateful for being stroked, licked her hand. ‘Far enough not to know what was happening, but near enough not to be able to go on living there. I was a teacher in a primary school and was scared to enter the classroom after break. The children wrote all sorts of things on the board. They hadn’t thought these things up themselves, they barely knew how to write… Our mother died… First I went to Konin, then came here. Perhaps you’d like something to drink after all? You must be cold ,seeing as you haven’t taken your jacket off.’
‘No, no thank you!’ He didn’t want to but must have shuddered at the very thought. The dog which had licked her hands started licking its balls again.
‘Hmm, you’re disgusted. One can get used to it.’ She smiled. ‘Cleanliness disgusts me. You can’t see the dirt under it.’
‘Please tell me what you know.’
‘Who knows what happened apart from them… Apparently someone saw the husband spying through the window first. He knew they were there together. Then nobody saw anything anymore. Strange, isn’t it? Some say he attacked them… Others that he was defending himself, that she’d concocted the whole thing… My brother didn’t kill anyone. He told mother it wasn’t him… After all, he wouldn’t have lied… I don’t know why he took the whole blame on himself afterwards. I don’t know… He didn’t want to see me… My letters came back…’ She broke off and began to breathe deeper, sniffing. It seemed she was going to start crying; but she only wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweater and pursed her lips.
‘What was the woman’s name? Do you know what happened to her afterwards?’
‘Don’t you know?’
Bartol didn’t answer.
‘Her married name was Elżbieta Garnczek. I don’t know her maiden name. They also disowned her. Nor do I know what happened to her. My brother got sixteen years, she got six for complicity. I’d even thought at times that she’d waited for him and they’d run off together somewhere but from what you say… she didn’t. When and where is the funeral?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Here’s the number to call.’ He pulled out a loose page from his notebook, which he’d prepared beforehand. ‘As far as I know, it’s all being arranged by his colleagues from work. They think he didn’t have a family. Please get in touch with them.’
She stared at the piece of paper a long while.
‘Poznań?’
‘Didn’t I tell you?’
‘I never asked… He was so close by…’ Again she hid her nose in her sleeve. ‘I visit Poznań at least several times a year, during the show, and sell dogs at Sielanka sometimes… And we never saw each other… He just didn’t want to…’
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to ask. Where were you three days ago?’
‘Here. People know I don’t go anywhere. If I wanted to go I’d have to ask the neighbour’s son to look after all this or they’d poison some of my dogs again… People are jealous around here. It didn’t bother them until I bought the village administrator’s car for my son because the man couldn’t pay his instalments. He told everyone how much I’d given him… Ever since then they won’t leave me in peace.’
‘And where does your son live?’ Bartol asked automatically.
‘Also in Poznań…’ She smiled to herself. ‘He wants to get married but he’s a prosecutor and doesn’t make much money.’
‘And his name’s Gawlicki?’
‘No, Pilski… After my first husband.’
Bartol was dumbfounded.
He began looking around restlessly. Fortunately, her eyes weren’t on him. The spotted dog had once more laid its head on her knees. Bartol couldn’t make out anything pink in the house. Nothing that would be in character with Pilski. He chased away another dog which had started fawning on him, and sprung to his feet. The dogs started barking like crazy again. Anna Maria Gawlicka, as if torn from her numbness, began to bustle around the room nervously.
‘I’m very sorry about your brother. I’m sure you understand that we’ll have to get in touch with you again. Please call when you come to the funeral, that’ll be easiest. We’ll take your statement.’
‘I didn’t say I’d be at the funeral!’ she said firmly. ‘He didn’t want to see me…’ she added much more quietly.
‘Perhaps he lacked the courage. His computer showed that he often visited websites of dog shows. Maybe he didn’t make it on time.’ It suddenly puzzled him why he, or anybody else, hadn’t put two and two together sooner. ‘Please think about it. One way or another we’ll stay in touch.’
Gawlicka nodded half-consciously and walked him to the door. He no longer paid any attention to the growling, barking dogs.
Lentz was leaning against the car, smoking. They took their seats.
‘Open the window, you don’t exactly smell nice. I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting breeders like that. So, are you impressed?’
‘Extremely impressed. Let’s go.’
Lentz smiled to himself and turned on the ignition.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’
‘No, you didn’t tell me,’ Bartol cut him off. He wanted to be alone for a while.
They left Grabno. Lentz didn’t utter another word. Nor did he say much when Bartol summed up what he’d learned. It seemed that the romantic story of the forbidden love between a priest and parishioner, which ended with the hardly romantic murder of a cuckolded husband – regardless of who had committed the murder
– had also made an impression on him. Lentz was surprised and horrified, although he wasn’t one to be easily surprised let alone horrified, especially where human passions were concerned, be they love or money. Apart from the passing fascinations for his imagined ailments, he generally approached everything with indifference and rationality. But this story appeared increasingly irrational to them both. Everything pointed to it not having ended many years ago in some village called Great Mocznowo. On the contrary, the drama continued, with a temporaru pause, at Mirosław Trzaska, or rather Jan Maria Gawlicki in Poznań, and, for some unknown reason, at Antoniusz Mikulski; some unwritten law said that this was not the end and no-one knew in what corner of Poland that end would come. On all this, they agreed.
Bartol didn’t say anything about Pilski; he simply said that there was still something he wanted to verify. He had no idea why he acted like this.
It had stopped raining, the air was clear and the road dry, yet they passed two accidents. As if to confirm that this wasn’t such a coincidence, Bartol noticed two new crosses by the roadside.
They didn’t discourage anyone. Incl
uding Lentz, who drove too fast and too erratically. He pulled over, approached, overtook overtaking cars, like nearly all the other drivers, as though he were twenty and had three lives ahead of him. As though in a computer game. As though a child, at least that’s what his mother said.
Somewhere halfway through their journey, they had to break abruptly and practically pull over to the hard shoulder, otherwise a mad young woman in a large four-wheel drive would have collided with a Fiat 126p head on. She, in her fourby-four cross-country truck, would perhaps have made it to her town; the other driver, in his little town car, would probably not have reached his village.
For most of the way, Bartol dozed a little or pretended to. As soon as he opened his eyes, he saw more of the same, all at the same game. As though it were a national sport, continuous championships, for life or death, or disability.
He didn’t feel like commenting, preferred not to look. Briefly, he wondered why he hadn’t noticed the crosses on the way there, when he was driving, but couldn’t find a logical answer.
It was no different in Poznań. There, too, many drivers were willing to overtake in order to stand at least one car closer to the traffic lights, as though they’d get trophy points. He felt tired and annoyed by the whole expedition, and the day hadn’t yet come to an end.
As soon as Lentz pulled into a petrol station to tank up and buy some cigarettes, Bartol phoned Pilski.
The prosecutor was at home. He had some time, but not much; he asked questions. Bartol couldn’t answer any of them or say how much time he needed, but he was insistent. They agreed to meet.
Bartol left Lentz at headquarters and drove to the appointed address. He found it straight away. This time everything was in character.
Grape-vine, a new, low-rise block, ugly yet squeezed in among old tower blocks, acted as darling of the estate and pride of its owners.
As he passed garages, sunken into the ground floor, Bartol wondered in which of these stood the village administrator’s car. He pressed the intercom and before hearing the door open gazed up. The higher apartments had fairly large balconies. Perhaps that, too, was a gift from medal winners of various breeds. But no. The apartment was on the second floor where there were no balconies; even so, as he climbed the stairs decorated with glass bricks on the half-landings, all the pens in Anna Maria Gawlicka-Sęk’s yard appeared in front of his eyes; he could even smell them.
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