‘Probably not, certainly not directly. We’ve checked, you weren’t in the country at the time.’
‘And now you’ve checked for yourself?’ Again she slowly half-closed her swollen eyelids.
‘No, I wanted to talk about the past.’ He didn’t add that it was perhaps also to warn her about what might lie ahead. He had no idea which way the conversation would turn.
‘Well then, you might be lucky.’ She lost herself in thought. ‘We’ll talk. Go ahead and ask.’
‘You were once in love with Mr Gawlicki.’ The moment he said this he knew he couldn’t have got off to a more idiotic start.
‘Why do you suppose that? I never loved him, I loved my husband.’
He might have expected it. He was wondering how to begin again but this time she was the first to speak.
‘I was nineteen when I got married. I was the happiest girl alive, just as it should be. Everyone envied me. He was different. Beautiful, gentle, fresh. Never stank of vodka, never shoved sweaty hands under my skirt in an alley, roughly, just to grope. Never. It’s just that, after the wedding he didn’t do so either…’ She paused, then continued: ‘I didn’t know what the problem was at the time. He held me like before, touched me like before, smiled like before but that wasn’t enough. I didn’t fully realise just to what extent it wasn’t enough. Then came sweet words and taunts in turn, laughter and tears, every day and every night. I couldn’t leave him - and not only because it was unthought of in those days. I loved him, loved him and thought all this had to change, that there was a way. Where did I get the idea of jealousy? The naivety of a twenty-year old girl, no doubt. Why Gawlicki? Out of the blue. He asked for it, came of his own accord, not once, not twice. He was good-looking and, in a sense, free. Did I hide it? Just enough for my husband to notice. For it to shake him a little. And it did. That’s what I thought when I saw him eavesdropping through the window. I wanted to see him suffer. I left Gawlicki naked in the bedroom, silently ran round the house and saw… him suffering, glued to the window, staring… with his hand down his trousers… What did I feel then? Infinite hatred, despair, helplessness. I started to scream, he took fright, pushed me into the house so that the neighbours wouldn’t hear. I hit him, scratched him, he merely protected himself. In the end I stopped, from sheer powerlessness or tiredness, I don’t know… He started to calm me down and I was almost calm until he said that everything was all right, until he put his arm around me… that arm, until I saw Gawlicki in the door, until I felt his sperm trickling down my thigh, until I saw him look at him like that…’ There was a long silence. ‘I don’t know how a brass figure of Our Lady with Child had come to be in our house, but it was there – at hand. I don’t know why I kept on suffocating him when he fell, I don’t know why Gawlicki stood and didn’t do anything. He didn’t understand what was happening and probably never came to understand. He said he loved me, and made love to me. He didn’t know why I’d thrown myself at my husband, thought he was the reason. But Gawlicki didn’t mean anything to me and I didn’t care what he thought. At first, he testified to the truth, that he hadn’t done anything. But later, when he discovered I was pregnant, he blamed himself entirely. I said it wasn’t the case, but the militia at the time took a definite fancy to his version. A priest, and Our Lady’s head imprinted on the victim’s skull – I think they were delighted. Nobody was interested in what I had to say. The testimonies didn’t tally so they made me an accomplice and put all the blame on him. Besides, I wasn’t interested in what was going to happen to him or to me. I only wanted to turn back time. So that my husband could hold me again, just as long as he was there. But he wasn’t. I hated Gawlicki as if it was his fault. I also hated his child as if it wasn’t mine and gave it away. I never saw Gawlicki again. You’re going to ask whether I’ve got any regrets? Yes, I only regret that the regret came so late, probably too late.’ She stood up. ‘Now you know everything. I don’t care whether you believe me or not. I’m going to the bathroom to rinse my eyes. You’ll never know whether that’s because of the memories or as a preventive measure following surgery. You may still ask a few questions but not too many, I feel extremely tired.’ She left.
She was right, he didn’t know why her eyes had become redder: from the sun, tears or general exhaustion. Whether he believed her or not wasn’t really all that important. Coming here, he knew that, like it or not, he’d hear only her version of events, one he’d never challenge – because how, with whose help? As it was, he didn’t have a clue why she’d bothered to tell him all this. She didn’t have to, and he’d never have forced her to do so. She’d wanted to tell him, but why? He had no intention of pondering it over. As soon as she reappeared, he simply asked: ‘Why did you tell me all this?’
‘I wanted you to know.’
‘That much I know, but why?’
‘Now that, I won’t tell you.’ He had no idea what the grimace on her face implied. ‘Perhaps I’m getting sentimental in my old age.’
‘Have you had any contact with Jan Maria Gawlicki’s and your child?’
‘No… Never… after I gave it away, never… At first I didn’t want to be a mother and wasn’t, then I wanted to be and was… And no longer am… You know that both my sons were killed?’
‘Yes, I know.’ He was sure now that tears, for a brief moment, appeared in her eyes, appeared then disappeared.
‘So you also know what my punishment is, my penance. Please don’t pester me anymore. I don’t know who could have killed him. Maybe you have to search closer to the surface.’
‘Maybe. Some Latin maxims were found beside both corpses. Have you by any chance received any flowers or other trifle with a saying attached?’
‘So you think I’m not a suspect but in danger?’
‘Not necessarily, but we can’t rule anything out.’
‘No, I haven’t received anything. Now please go.’
‘Here’s my card. Please call if anything troubles you.’
‘Troubles… I no longer know what that means. I’ll see you out.’
He stood up, angry at himself; he hadn’t played his cards right. Maybe what she said about what had happened so many years ago was true, but he was now certain she was hiding something from him. He made use of the bathroom; purposely spent a long time in there and flushed the toilet several times, so that she wouldn’t be waiting for him at the door when he left. It would give him time to look around a bit. It worked. She wasn’t there, but nor did he find anything which aroused his suspicion. He didn’t see any writing on the soap; there were no heart-shaped chocolate boxes or photographs of mothers with children. He didn’t see any photographs of children either.
She was standing at a desk in a small study right next to the front door and staring at an angular mirror lying there. She turned abruptly.
‘All right? Have you finished?’ He had no idea whether she was asking about the bathroom or knew he’d been snooping around.
‘Yes. That’s a beautiful mirror.’
‘Yes, it is beautiful. I brought it back from China. It gives a perfect reflection.’ She walked up to him, closing the door behind her.
‘If I have any more questions, I’ll take the liberty of calling.’
‘See you.’ He didn’t know whether she was throwing him out with these words or really thought they’d see each other sometime. Her face had turned to stone again, the contours of her eyes turned bluer.
Up until Polek’s phone call, Maciej Bartol had only one plan – to find himself at Magda’s place as soon as possible and tell her everything. Bu Polek had phoned asking what time Bartol would be home; and as soon as he’d received the answer announced he’d wait. Where? On the staircase. He wasn’t going to talk over the phone. It so happened that Bartol didn’t have the slightest wish to talk to Polek, to agree on his alibi or anything in that vein, but he couldn’t turn him away. He assumed, at first, that it would take five minutes then, seeing the sloshed Polek waiting on the doormat with an overnight bag, changed his mind
and called Magda that he wouldn’t be coming that day.
It was Friday, the thirteenth to top it all, but this he hadn’t expected.
Only a month ago Polek had maintained that he had a grown-up daughter, yet now he was screaming: how could she do it to a little girl? For a while, Bartol couldn’t understand what he meant. During an ordinary morning row, apparently, Polek’s wife had suddenly announced that, in that case, she was getting a divorce, that he’d just helped her decide and that their child was already an adult and would understand. Because she deserved something in life too. Because the fucking mountaineer – as Polek put it – would see to it. Why mountaineer? Because apparently he’d told her that, for him, she was the Mount Everest whose summit he wanted to conquer. It wouldn’t have occurred to Bartol that Polek’s wife could be any sort of summit for anyone at all, but he refrained from saying so. For a good half hour Polek named all the mountains and mountain ranges he knew before deciding that he’d make Karakorum of the mountaineer’s arse then repeated it over and over again. At a certain point, Bartol couldn’t take anymore and admitted Polek was the one he’d seen groping a young lady, so where was the problem? To which Polek simply replied that that was neither here nor there because he was only conquering the Table Mountain.
So Bartol decided not to say anything and allow Polek to moan and get drunk as quickly as possible. In fact he didn’t see any other solution for the evening. He poured himself small tipples, poured Polek measures twice as large, but the outcome was quite the opposite. Tiredness caught up with him while Polek blabbered incoherently yet coherently enough to inform the neighbours of his passion for geography.
Before Bartol had heard, for the hundredth time, that the Mariana Trench was the place where all women should be put, and how could she throw him out of the house – that in fact he’d been the first to say he was leaving – but she should have made him stay yet didn’t, and that the most important thing was to have friends with whom one could conquer mountain peaks
– a litre of time had gone by. He fell asleep in the armchair, Polek on the sofa. The latter snored terribly.
In the morning, Bartol had a headache and Polek wasn’t there. On the table was a note: he’d forgotten his toothbrush.
Bartol didn’t know where to start the day. What he’d most willingly have done was go to see Magda and tell her about what had happened the previous day, less willingly, he'd have gone to see prosecutor Pilski about the same thing. Unable to decide, he chose a third option. He went to headquarters.
Soon it was clear that it was the best solution. True enough, he didn’t discover what was happening to Polek, who’d taken a day off, but he did find out that he wouldn’t be talking to Pilski in the near future. Lentz informed him that Pilski, leaving all his cases aside, had asked for a month’s leave in order to take care of his mother – apparently. Nobody had believed him, either – apparently. Someone had even asked jokingly what his fiancée would say, to which he’d replied that he’d look into her grievances at a later date. Lentz summed it up in one sentence: all sorts of assumptions were being made. Bartol made his too. Pilski’s version seemed perfectly true to him: he’d broken up with his fiancée – which Bartol considered the right move and had decided to take care of his mother
– which was a good excuse. Lentz accepted the explanation with an indifferent expression, which meant something like ‘you obviously know what you’re talking about’ and without any questions showed Bartol a letter lying on his desk. It was from Pilski:
I’m at your disposal at any time. I now have to take care of my mother. You know the address at which to find me. See you soon.
Bartol didn’t have time to properly analyse what he’d heard and read. A phone call from downstairs threw him a little. Romana Zalewska was waiting to speak to him. He’d almost forgotten about her.
Surprise would remain on his face for much longer. The first thing she announced was: ‘Because the light was on.’
Once they were upstairs, she was the first to speak again: ‘I didn’t think I’d find myself here again either, and as if for the same reason.’
‘I’m pleased to see you again, of course, but please repeat what brought you here.’
‘I know it’s going to sound strange yet again, but the light was on, in the evening, a couple of days ago.’
It did sound strange. He had in front of his eyes what seemingly was the same woman: composed, resolute, even more attractive in spring, but this seemed to verge on obsession. He didn’t really know what was happening to the house in Solacz. All he knew was that it was the subject of complicated, relatively rare legal procedures since no owner had been found. And that no owner had been found he knew full well, but this surely didn’t mean that nobody could enter. It could have been some police experts, for example.
‘You don’t have to look at me so strangely. I haven’t gone mad ,even though the silhouette I saw in the window also seemed familiar. Over the four days since I first saw the light’ – she emphasised the last words in such a way that Bartol sat up and started to listen like he had the last time – ‘I’ve been checking what’s happening with the house and whether it could have been strangers. Maybe it was, but not necessarily. There are so many people interested in the house that even the smallest pieces of information go through the lawyers opposite, two design offices and one over-advertised advertising agency. Even I, when I enquired, started to be treated like an enemy in a battle for the property. That’s why it’s taken so much time. Apparently nobody had been there, or at least nobody who shouldn’t have been. No burglars either, as I checked by egging on the lawyers. They raised the alarm, needlessly so according to your men. But I saw a light on in there!’
‘I believe you. Up until now you haven’t been wrong about matters concerning lights.’
‘Nor am I professionally wrong in these cases. A dispersed and concealed source of light is almost my sign of identification.’ She relaxed a little.
‘I associate you with light, too.’ They both smiled. ‘I’ll look into it. You mentioned a silhouette?’
‘Far-reaching assumptions they sometimes say, but mine go even further, are just about visible. And I’m no longer sure if it’s not a figment of my imagination, but I think – I repeat – I think I saw Mr and Mrs Mikulski’s son through the window. I know he didn’t come forward as a beneficiary and wasn’t at Mrs Mikulska’s funeral so he’s probably not here. Maybe I saw a ghost, even though I don’t believe in them. Either way, I had to come and tell you for my own peace of mind.’
She did, indeed, look relieved. Bartol, on the other hand, was trying hard, very hard to remain calm. He tried, too, not to show either surprise or excitement or anything at all. Slowly, everything started to fall into place. He leaned back in his chair, practically sat on his fingers to stop them drumming nervously on the table, stop them rubbing his nose, stop them making any unnecessary, treacherous moves. The police were supposedly looking for the son, but he blamed himself for having neglected this trail a little. Lentz had been right, yet again – the simplest solution.
‘He’s probably not in Poland. He didn’t come forward about the estate. He’s not obliged, of course, but as you can understand, it’s quite a profitable duty.’ It seemed to him that she had, in some way, been waiting for such an answer. ‘But I’ll try to find out who could have been prowling around the house. I never asked you before’ – he now angrily crushed his hands harder, controlled his voice – ‘but, as I gather, you knew him well?’
‘Even if you’d asked at the time I don’t know whether I’d have told you. It wasn’t a relationship… there’s no relationship really…’ For the first time he saw her lose her self-control; the unintended cluster of words, an ordinary slip of the tongue openly revealed what she hadn’t intended to say but what he’d intended to ask. ‘No, the two things had simply nothing to do with each other.’
‘Please don’t get upset, I’m not interested in your personal life. You came of your
own accord because there was something worrying you and we’re here to resolve your worries. That’s all.’
‘I’m sorry, you’re right. All in all, it’s easier for me to explain my agitation now. Perhaps what I saw in the window was what I’d subconsciously wanted to see. Then I blew it all up because if it had been Janek he, too, could have been in danger.’
‘Please don’t be angry, but I’m obliged to ask: when did you last see Jan Mikulski?’
‘Four days ago, so I thought. I’ve just told you.’
‘Yes, of course, but you’re not sure. And for sure?’
‘Ten, no, maybe twelve years ago.’ She paused. It seemed she even blushed, although it was hard for blushes to break through the layer of powder. ‘I know it might seem strange, maybe ridiculous, I was much older…’
‘No, it’s not strange and it’s not ridiculous…’ he said almost to himself, thinking how like Elżbieta Ogrodniczak she was. Younger but similarly tense, draped, uniformed, upright, even her hair was tied back in a similar way although with a fringe, the eyes were also somehow… It was only the two deep furrows which appeared on her increasingly frowning forehead that brought him to order.
‘The fact that I’m telling you something doesn’t mean I need you to comfort or justify me. Two years of effective therapy were enough for me to be able to justify everything to myself. We won’t delve into it now. The short-term episode ended equally as quickly and unexpectedly as it had begun, that’s all.’
He wasn’t good at talking to these women. Again he was furious with himself. Try as he may, everything pointed to the fact that he could only interview women of questionable quality.
‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t what I’d wanted to say.’
‘I know what you wanted to say.’ She started to get up.
‘No, you don’t.’ A sharper tone of voice seemed the only solution. It worked. She looked at him with a hint of interest, and sat down. ‘You’re an attractive woman and I guess the same must have applied ten years ago – although I’m not sure it would have been true twenty years ago, as far as I remember from your photograph as a student, that’s all.’ She smiled, clearly pleased with what he’d said. ‘As a pure formality I just want to ask: was there a specific reason why Jan Mikulski left the country and can’t or doesn’t want to return?’ he asked as calmly as can be, as if indifferently, as if he wasn’t greatly interested.
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